


Rebel Yell

by lil_hanna



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Domestic Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 88,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lil_hanna/pseuds/lil_hanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything seems to be going okay for Daryl with his simple yet guarded life. Then he gets picked up from the side of the road by a sketchy woman. One thing leads to another while everything turns to shit, leaving his friends to help him pick up the pieces. AU! No zombies! Warning: Rated M for obscenities, slight horrific scenes. (Lots of Daryl whump!!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

With silent breaths of anticipation, he aligns the crosshairs with the lungs of the deer, his finger on the trigger, ready to squeeze at the right moment. It remains unaware of his presence.

He had been stalking this deer for a while now, since early this morning in fact. He was hoping to snag a deer to keep him and his brother going for a while, and this beauty would do just that. Not too skinny, but not too fat either. It's just right, as Goldilocks would say.

Nanoseconds before he squeezes the trigger, the doe jumps to the left, startled, causing the bolt to miss its mark by mere centimeters and fly forward into the depths of the woods. The deer stands frozen in its spot, white tail flashing wildly, and locks its gaze with his. And then it bolts off in the opposite direction on his truck.

"Shit," Daryl mutters under his breath. He looks around, wondering what spooked the deer, but sees nothing obvious. He considers maybe it was him that scared the deer, and can almost hear his brother now. 'Gettin' kinda rusty there lil' D. Maybe if you weren't so busy doin' women's work, runnin' around doin' shit no man has no business doin' ya wouldn't be so damn out of practice.'

"What the hell you even talking 'bout? At least I get the damn bills paid!" Daryl yells to the voice.

He shakes his head, trying to clear it. 'Damn I think I'm goin' crazy.' Talking to the voices in his head won't help him track a deer, so he pushing all the irritating thought of Merle and his unhelpfulness aside. He slings his crossbow onto his back and follows the deer's trail, not even bothering to look for his bolt, knowing it isn't worth the time.

He tracks the deer for about an hour before deciding it's too late to keep going if he wants to make it back before dark. He needs to get back home so he can get some sleep before he gets up for work in the morning.

He walks down the road, finding it to be the faster way back to his truck. He thinks about what he's going to eat tonight, considering he doesn't have much in the way of food, but is knocked out of his thoughts by the distant sound of a car approaching. He looks back briefly, as if he really cares who it is, but ignores the car and continues as he was.

As it gets closer he notices that it starts slowing down. When the car is rolling beside him in speed with his steady gait, he looks over to see the tinted window rolling down. What the hell would anyone want to be saying to a Dixon out in the middle of the boondocks? He immediately puts his guard up, suspecting it to be some self absorbed asshole just trying to get a rise out of the town's resident hot headed, white trash redneck.

But that's not what he faces when the window rolls down. No, as a matter of fact, it's not even anyone that he could put a name to. And he can't help but stare. Beyond the window is a pretty woman with long, brown curly hair with big, beautiful hazel eyes and a bright smile. She's not looking at him with the usual look of loathing granted to the Dixons; instead, she's looking at him with a look of curiosity and something else he can't quite identify.

"What are ya doin' out here in the middle of nowhere, stranger?" she asks with a hint of humor in her unwavering smile. 'That's odd.'

He half considers just ignoring her and continue walking, it's not like he doesn't already have the reputation of being a rude asshole, but he answers anyway with a short, "Huntin'."

"Don't look like you're huntin' to me. Looks like you're tryin' to get somewhere. Maybe I can help. Ya want a lift?"

"No. I don' need no help," he answers shortly, hand grasping tightly to his sling. He really didn't need any help. He's always done this himself and doesn't see the point of having help now.

"Oh, nonsense. You look like you're about to fall over. You must've been walkin' for miles. Why don't I give you a lift... to wherever yer goin'. So I can give yer fine ass a rest," she says with a smirk.

He looks over at her incredulously, a sneer masking his confusion. 'Is this bitch really flirting with me? Who the hell flirts with a Dixon? A weird person, that's who.' "I said I'm fine," he says stubbornly.

"Well you can either get in the car and I can drive you to wherever yer goin' and you'll get there a lot faster, or... I can just drive behind you the whole way because quite frankly, I think I'll enjoy the view," she says, waving her perfectly shaped eyebrows.

He just stares at her for a few moments, walking with her following along beside him. Her eyes portray nothing but pure honesty. He could seriously picture her driving along beside him for the entire walk back to his truck, wasting gas like a dumbass. This bitch is serious. Maybe if he just cuts through the woods he could get away from this chick. But the nagging ache traveling down his spine and to his feet reminds him he's not as young as he used to be. Maybe just this once he could accept a little ride. What could it hurt?

He looks over at the girl again, trying to gage whether she is trustworthy. With a resigned sigh, he walks up to the door, opening it as soon as she stops. He stares at her again, thinking before he gets in. Is this really happening, is it some sort of trick? He half expects some prank show's TV host to pop out and yell, "Surprise! Ah, man, I can't believe you fell for that. Man, she don't want trash like you in her car!" He could almost hear it, the laughing and taunting coming from the film crew.

Her cocky voice brought him back to reality. "You gonna just stare at me all day, handsome, or are you gonna get in? Hmm?"

He swings his crossbow off his shoulder and sets it on the floorboard before swinging himself into the seat and shutting the door. She starts driving again and the cab falls silent except for the low hum of music, something he doesn't even like. It's that new pop music or some shit like that.

"So, where you headed?" her voice chimes out.

"My truck," he answers vaguely, not in a talkative mood.

"'My truck,'" she says playfully, mocking his raspy voice, making Daryl raise an eyebrow. "Well... where might this truck be?" she asks, amused.

"About five miles down this road. Then turn right down a dirt road," he says, pointing his finger in the direction they're going.

"Alllright then."

They sit quietly for a few minutes. He doesn't look over at her. He just keeps his head turned away, looking out the passenger window. He chews on the skin of his thumb as his thoughts overtake him again, his other hand resting on the butt of his crossbow. His mind drifts to the strange girl sitting a mere three feet away, who, for some reason, wanted to help him out.

He wonders where she came from, and He's surprises himself by asking, "Where d'you come from?" He's not one for initiating conversation.

She glances over at him and graces him with her bright smile. "Louisiana, born and raised. The reason I'm here is because I needed to get away. Ya know?" Daryl grunts in understanding. "The family was gettin' a bit too much. I needed a place that's quite and laid back. She casts a longer look a Daryl, one that he can't quite decipher the meaning to. Then she smiles that bright smile again, which makes him feel a bit uncomfortable. This chick is an odd one. Daryl shakes his head.

"Turn down that dirt road there," he says, pointing over to the right lazily as he notices they're almost to the road he parked his truck on.

When his blue Ford pickup is visible in the distance the girl looks over again. "That your ride?" He just grunts in conformation. "Nice." She smiles again. "I never caught your name, handsome." Daryl looks over at her and seriously considers making up a name. But why? There really would be no point. Most everyone already thinks he's an asshole, what would he be trying to hide? The least he could do was tell the one person, apart from a view, that's been nice to him in this God forsaken town his real name.

"Daryl Dixon."

She pulls over by his truck. "Nice to meet you Daryl," she sticks her hand out and after a few seconds of hesitation he awkwardly shakes it, "and I'm Satin, Satin Kingsley."

Daryl lets go of her hand, grabs his crossbow, and opens the door to step out. "Thanks... fer the ride," he mutters.

"No problem. Hey, maybe I'll see you around town," she says with a laugh. Daryl slams her car door shut and walks over to his truck. He gets in and places his crossbow on the passenger seat. "Yeah, maybe," he mutters to himself as he drives away.

Satin sits back in the driver's seat and watches Daryl turn around and drive away to the main road while smiling to herself. She really hopes they'll meet again, if not by chance, she'll find one way or another.


	2. Chapter 2

He's in a sour mood; nothing goes to plan. Any apprentice or coworker brave enough to be around him treaded lightly as to not irritate their supervisor any further and face his wrath. The day didn't begin out this crappy, but it slowly deteriorated into one hell of a shitty day.  
________________________________________  
He's awoken from a moderately okay night of sleep by his alarm clock; Merle was quiet for once which lead him to believe he came home alone, or maybe he just didn't come home. He lays there for a moment rubbing his face, willing himself the inspiration to actually leave his bed.  
With a groan he throws the blanket off of him and ambles to the bathroom down the hall, not being fully awake. After he gets to the bathroom he empties his bladder. When he's washing his hands he chances a look up at his reflection in the mirror. He can't help but grimace. He's always hated seeing himself, anytime, whether it's in a mirror or in a picture. He hates what he sees.  
A rough looking man with a tired face, long, shaggy, brown hair and piercing blue eyes looks back at him. It's not his dad's eye, for his eyes were green, but his mom's staring back at him. And he hates it, the reminder of the mother that was never really there for him. He hates the haunted and tired look that he sees in those eyes. The looks they betray his many insecurities; he tries hiding it with scowls and mean glares. And for the most part it works, which he's thankful, but there are the odd occasion when he catches someone looking at him with a look he absolutely despises. Pity. That is one thing, among many others, that he does not need. Or want.  
He finishes washing his hand and goes back to his room to put on his work cloths. And he heads to the kitchen to cook himself some breakfast and fix some lunch for later. But to Daryl's dismay, he's greeted with and empty fridge, nothing in the fridge that's in the way of food. Well, damnit all. So he goes to plan b and decides he'll just have some cereal. When he picks up the Cheerios he finds that the box is empty as well. As well as the next box. What the hell!? We had food yesterday.  
"Merle!" Daryl yells throwing the boxes down in the trash with a huff. He stomps down the hall to Merle's bedroom. "Goddamnit, Merle! What the hell? Did you eat all our food?" Daryl asks throwing his door open.  
Merle just rolls over and grunts out something incoherent. Daryl grimaces. Thankfully, most of his body is under the sheets because the image of a naked Merle isn't something he really wants to be graced with all day.  
Daryl sighs and shakes his head. "Dumbass." He shuts his door and heads for the kitchen.  
Since there wasn't any food at home and judging by the time from his cell phone he wouldn't have time to get any fast-food. He'll just go without until lunch break, and then maybe he can get something.  
________________________________________  
He's working on the electrical wiring in the new school building that was built for the town and he keeps finding himself on jobs with wiring fucked to shit because the person that was working before him didn't know what the hell they were doin'. Or they were addin' all this fancy shit spending all their time on it, and then finding out they didn't even do it right. Then there's the other workers coming up to him for help because they got a problem with their jobs and it's up to him to figure it out. Then he has to go and fix the problems, which takes him well over lunch time. He would have cut for lunch and had a brake, but he knew if he did that he'd have to work on it for another day. Why do tomorrow what you can do today?  
Daryl's moodiness may stem from the fact that he's been working nonstop on an empty stomach since that morning without stopping for a cigarette break, but everyone's idiotic notions and theories may also have to do with it. It almost seems that on days like these everybody keeps screwing shit up, (sometimes he wonders if they might be doing it on purpose) and that he's the only one who actually knows how to get anything done.  
After everything gets rapped up for the day, Daryl goes into his work trailer and finally lights up a cigarette. Inhaling deeply and holding it in, letting it calm his nerves. He basks in the glory of the air condition, the air cooling his sweaty skin, and its glorious contrast to working out in the sweltering, humid heat.  
Going over to his desk, he sits down and leans back, letting his tense muscle relax a bit. After a moment or two he leans forward with a groan and takes out his time book he keeps in the drawer, and gets to work updating all his workers times for today.  
His stomach growls at him miserably. "Shut Up! I ain't got time for ya naggin'." He gripes at his stomach while finishing up his right up.  
He takes out his cell phone from his pants pocket and calls his boss, Jon Wesley. He gives him a report about how much of the work was done today. They say their byes and he hangs up. Daryl sits back in his chair and all the annoying things that happened during the day come rushing back to him, making him his blood pressure rise from annoyance all over again. He takes a calming breath and thinks about what he needs to do now. The persistent rumble in his belly reminds him that he should probably eat something before he does anything else.  
He considers all the fast food places, knowing that going home would be pointless, and finally decided on Sonic. He puts the time book back in the drawer and turns everything off and locks up, cheering up just the tiniest bit from the concept of actually getting some food.  
The drive doesn't take long, maybe about five minutes down the road. He pulls into a vacant spot and the workers voice cuts out when he pushes the button to order. "Welcome to Sonic, may I take your order?"  
"Yeah, uh.… I want a… number one with mustard, onion rings, an' a large Dr. Pepper. And don't forget the Ketchup." The worker reads back his order and tells him his price and he digs out some money from his wallet and patiently waits for the waiter or waitress to come give him his food. He listens to the local hard rock station while blowing out smoke rings for a small source of entertainment.  
Ten minutes later the waitress arrives with his food. She looks young; probably a college student trying to pay off student loans. Her nametag says Penelope Sanders. He doesn't know her, but she looks vaguely familiar. Where he could've seen her before he has no clue, but you can't live in a town with a population this small without seeing everyone at least once.  
She stops at his rolled down window and looks at him, her eyes widen just a bit when she realizes who she's waiting on. Speaking with an almost shy voice she says. "Here's your order: A number one with mustard, onion rings, and… a large Dr. Pepper. Your ketchup should be in the bag." She gives a nervous smile as he takes the bag and drink. "That'll be $6.75, sir." He hands her a ten dollar bill. She works the change out and hands it out to him, but is stopped by Daryl holding his hand up.  
"No." She freezes, uncertain by his action. "You keep it." Daryl says a little softer sensing her unease.  
She takes her hand back and stares at him in surprise, then looks at the money. She looks back to Daryl and smiles a little. "Thank you. Have a nice day, Mr. Dixon." Daryl just grunts and flicks the ashes off his cigarette out the window while she runs off to get back to her job.  
________________________________________  
After he stuffs his face he goes to the grocery store, his least favorite thing to do when he's in town. It involves too much confrontation, glares, and suspicious looks. 'Like I ain't like everyone else who has to buy things to live off of. Probably think I should be livin' in a one room shack shittin' in an outhouse in the backyard out in the middle of the woods.' Daryl scoffs at his thoughts about people's misconceived notions of how the Dixon's live. "Assholes."  
He pulls up into the parking lot of Kroger's, already dreading leaving the sanctity of his company work truck. He parks and steps out to head to the automatic sliding doors. He mentally goes through his mind what he and Merle'll need for at least the next two weeks. He grabs a buggy and makes a round around the grocery store, grabbing the necessities first such as; milk, cereal, bread. He stops by the meat section considering his options. He didn't get that deer a few days ago, so that meant they didn't have any meat in the freezer. They ate the last of their deer meat last week. And he wanted some type of meat to have, so he eventually decided on buying hamburger meat.  
"Daryl!" Startled, Daryl's head whirls around to face the source of the voice. "Hey, Daryl. Fancy meetin' you here." A young lady's walking towards him.  
It takes him a few seconds for him to recognize the girl; he honestly forgot that she even existed, having other shit to worry about. He scratches the back of his head in consternation. Agh.. What was this girl's name? Sum'm weird like… Statton?... Slatton?.. Nah.. that don't sound right. It was, uh.. 'Sa' sum'm. Satin! That sounds right. He realizes he's just standing there looking at her so he gives her nod before turning around to grab the meat and put it in his buggy. Satin takes that as a signal to keep speaking.  
"You must've just got off work. I just got off of work myself, thought I'd buy myself some last minute groceries before I headed home. I work at that lil' dinner over there, across the street." She says pointing an estimated direction, smiling at him. "Where do you work?" She asks looking at him with her big sparkling eyes but he ignores them.  
He's grasping tightly to the handlebar with both hands, he really wants to get everything he needs so he can get home and relax on his recliner nursing a cold beer, not stand around all day making conversation with some chick. "I have shit to do, so if ya don' mind…" he begins walking away when her voice stops him.  
"Hey!" She walks around and stands in front of his buggy in an attempt to stop him and crosses her arms, eyes on fire. "I asked you a question." She says with a huff that makes nostrils flair. Daryl cocks an eye brow at her. Wow, okay.  
He backs up to go around here, "yeah, well... I plea the 5th." Satin makes a grab for his buggy, but he pulls it out of her reach. He has every intention to just keep walking but she asks something that makes him freeze in place.  
"What if I asked you out on a date?" Satin's voice pauses, waiting for a response, while he just stands there frozen. "Okay, maybe not a date, but like a night out so when can get to know one another?"  
He slowly turns around to look at her. "Why?" He couldn't possibly understand why anyone would want to be spending time with him. Sometimes even he wouldn't want to be spending time with him.  
"Why?" She asks incredulously and laughs. "Why not? You seem like a decent man, not to mention handsome. Why shouldn't I want to get to know you?" Daryl just leans away from her a bit and looks at her unconvinced. He looks around, thinking about bolting, but he really needs these groceries. He chews on his thumb while he considers his options. If he leaves now he would just have to come back later, and burn that much more gas, and now a days gas ain't cheap. And if he stays, but denies her invitation, he might have to endure the possibility of another awkward confrontation from her throughout the rest of his browsing. But ultimately, he chooses the harder route and decides to suck it up and deny her offer. He looks to her face again, still gnawing on his thumb anxiously. He had a few things in mind he would have liked to say, but when he makes eye contact with her, his mind goes blank.  
Satin must have sensed his unease because she state, "To soon? Ah, that's okay. Maybe next time, handsome." She gives him a sweet smile and touches him on his shoulder as she walks by, not noticing him flinch, and then she calmly walks away with her groceries.  
He watches her walk away, and as soon as she's out of sight Daryl releases a breath he didn't even know he was holding. He suddenly remembers he's in the middle of a grocery store and looks around quickly in hopes of not finding anyone who could have witnessed his panicked episode. Satisfied that there were no prying eyes or ears he continues on with his shopping spree in relative equanimity.  
________________________________________  
On the drive home he couldn't help but get stuck in his thoughts, even though he tried distracting himself by turning the music up load. Currently it was Down in A Hole by Alice in Chains playing but it helped very little. His mind went through the morning worked its way up to when he was on the job and he stewed over that for a while. But the cherry on top of the shit Sunday, that he would call his day, was that weird interaction with that girl, Satin. He couldn't figure her out. She was new to the town, has bound to have heard some of the not so nice things people have to say about him behind his back, and she still wants to hang out with him. Daryl's not real sure how he should feel about that. Flattered or weary.  
And on top of it all, there's something about her, something just a little… off. He doesn't know what it is, he couldn't tell you even if you asked. It's because of that reason she makes him feel slightly ill at ease. He doesn't know what to expect from this chick. She's all over the place. He can't figure her out. Hell, the whole damn mess's just screwing with his head. He tries to think about something else, someone else.  
He finally pulls into his drive way after doing rounds with his thoughts the whole ride home. He grabs all the bags as he heads inside the house.  
Merle's sitting in his recliner when he walks in the front door. "Merle, get out'a my chair." Daryl demands as he struggles with the bags and beer cartons on his way to the kitchen.  
Merle ignores him and continues to sip his beer. "Ya got any tampons in them bags?" He says when Daryl starts takin' out the different food from the bag and placing them on the counter. Daryl looks over at him confused, thrown off by the randomness of his enquiry.  
"What?"  
"Ya know. Tampons! For ya pussy, ya practically one anyways." Merle says with his irritating cackle.  
Daryl just stares at him unimpressed. "Ya know Merle, if you'd stop moochin' off me, an' get a fuckin' job and pull ya damn weight aroun' here. I wouldn't have ta do every damn thing mahself." Daryl says, voice rising with each word. "Ya always off. Doin' God knows what, high off ya ass and bringin' home these skanky ass women an' stickin' ya dick in 'em. I don't want those bitches in my house."  
"Yeah, well atleast I know how to use mine. Ya's is liable to fall off."  
"At least I ain't ever had the clap. And besides, what I do with my dick, is my business. So fuck off!" Daryl says irritably as he slams the refrigerator door.  
"Woah boy, what crawled up ya ass today?!" Merle frowns at him.  
"I'm jus' tired of people's bullshit." He says cutting his eyes at Merle while his stick a cigarette in his mouth and lights it.  
"Well, if I didn't know no better, I'd think ya was tryin' ta hurt ole Merle's feelin's." Merle said feigning hurt. "What, you think yer better 'n' me? That it, hmm? You got this job a yours. Makes you feel important, don' it?" Merle says with a cold look in his eyes, all humor gone, getting up from the chair and walking over to him. "Makes a man forget who's really gonna have their back at the end of the day.  
"Them boys you work with, that Wesley fella. They don't care about you. They'd leave ya in the dirt wit' two broken legs if they could get away with it." Merle grey eyes piercing into Daryl cobalt blue, "ya just money ta them, you don' mean shit." Merle leans back. "I'm the only one who's ever givin' a damn about ya, Baby Brother. You best remember that."  
Daryl takes in an unsteady breath, "Yeah, well if ya cared so damn much you'd get ya lazy ass a job." The two continue their staring match, while Daryl notices that his cigarette is missing. It had fallen out of his mouth at some point during Merle's assertion and is lying somewhere on the floor.  
"Yeah, I'll get a job alright… for my dick." Merle cackles on the last part.  
"Damnit Merle. I'm serious." Daryl says, exasperated.  
"Yeah, me too." Merle laughs out as he goes back to Daryl's chair.  
So much for sittin' in my chair.  
Daryl sighs and rubs a hand through his unkempt hair scratching his scalp. He looks for his cigarette and sees it about a foot from his feet, he bends down to pick it up and momentarily wonders if it'd be more harmful to smoke a cigarette from the floor then to actually smoke a cigarette before he sticks it into his mouth anyway, not giving a shit.  
"Why don't we go out to the bar and have a few drink. Ya need to loosen up some, Darlena. Maybe find ya some tail that could help ya out with that." Merle says with a wink. Daryl just rolls his eyes.  
"Nah, I'd rather not." Daryl says after sitting down in a dining chair smoking his floor cigarette.  
"Ah, come on it'll be fun. Maybe you could meet a nice girl that you could run away with and live happily ever after." Merle says batting his eyelashes theatrically.  
"Screw you."  
"Naw, but really we need ta have a night out. You've been so damn busy with ya fancy work, we ain't spent no time together."  
Daryl sighs snubbing his cigarette out. Knowing Merle wouldn't shut up unless he went with him. "Fine." He begrudgingly accepts.  
________________________________________  
Satin waits outside patiently reading her book for her favorite blue eyed redneck to step outside of the house. She looks up at the sound of a screen door squeaking, seeing said man steps outside followed by a man with a bigger build, but with similar features. 'They must be brothers.' She giddily smiles to herself as she takes a few photos with her cell phone. She watches them get in the blue truck, the same she remembers dropping him off at, and watches them back out of the drive way and drive off towards town. She bites her tongue with excitement, as she sneaks off through the woods to where she was hiding her car and heads towards town.


	3. Chapter 3

Chitlin Switch Tavern, the town's only bar, had a crowd but wasn't entirely too packed when they got there. When they walk in Daryl and Merle walk over to left side of the bar, straight to their typical seats. Merle orders a round of Wild Turkey, while Daryl orders his preferred whiskey, Rebel Yell.  
The bar's fairly quiet except for "When the Levee Breaks" Led Zeppelin playing from the stereo system. He remembers when he wired it up. This place hasn't always had a sound system, only relying on music that may get played live on the small stage over on the side of the bar. But Bud Murphy, the owner of the bar, wanted to get one installed. So he knew that if he wanted to get it set up properly he needed to call Daryl. Everyone knows that he's the best electrician around for miles, apart from Jon Wesley.  
He savors the burn that his whiskey bestows. Maybe this night won't be so bad. He looks around at everyone in the bar. Everyone in the bar is either old and lonely, depressed, minding their own business, or just having a drink, like them. He doesn't see any of the people that would be probing for some kind of fight. Not yet at least, it was still pretty early.  
He likes it better on nights like these. Despite his reputation, he'd rather not get into fights. That's more Merle's thing. Daryl just usually gets dragged into them somehow.  
________________________________________  
Daryl is just starting to feel the effects of the alcohol when all the night hawks come bustling in, making the bar much louder and more active.  
Daryl's back stiffens when he hears Merle's friends approach, hootin' and hollerin'. He gets up to leave the bar, in favor of a more quite booth. He can never really enjoy himself when those douchebags are around. It's usually when they're around that all hell breaks loose. There has been so many different occasions where he was a victim to their relentless harassing, often times going too far because they were stoned off their asses didn't have a fuckin' clue what they were even doin'.  
About five years ago...  
Daryl and the group were at Tommy's, Merle's 'closest' friend's house for a football game, except the game wasn't the center of their discussion; it was Daryl's sex life, or lack of. It was bearable at first, just the average ribbing, "Oh, you need to do this or that." But it quickly escalated to something much more aggressive. Tommy approached Daryl assertively, speaking, "I bet ya don't even like women." He could hear snickers coming from around the room. Tommy's eyes were almost completely black, from some unknown drug flowing around in his system.  
"No, I bet you's some type a queer." Of course Daryl wasn't, but he had a feeling telling him so wouldn't have helped his situation any, so he said nothing. Tommy continued towards him, and his advance caused Daryl to take weary steps backwards until his back was flat against the wall and Tommy was in his face. Daryl swallowed nervously, fearful of where this was going. "Is that right?" Tommy whispered breathily, he could feel the dude's revulsive breath on his lips; he turned his face away trying to escape it.  
Suddenly Tommy grabbed Daryl's balls with an iron grip, which caused Daryl to gasp from shock and his eyes to widen to an almost impossible degree. Daryl squirmed from a combination of discomfort and the desperate need to get away, but Tommy just squeezed harder. Daryl accidentally let out a small whimper. He immediately felt like a little bitch afterwards.  
Daryl's face was flaming hot from shame and embarrassment as Tommy continued his escapade and the remainder of the group continued to snigger, including Merle. "I bet you like it up the ass," Tommy grabbed Daryl's chin with his free hand and forced him to face him while smiling almost flirtatiously, "reeaal hard." Tommy started tracing Daryl's lips with his thumb and the hand that was assaulting his groin went to comb through his hair, and before he could even think to do anything to stop him, he felt Tommy's lips smashed against his own. It takes a good two seconds to realize what he was actually doing and he started feeling Tommy's wet tongue sliding against his lips. Daryl reacted the only way he could think to and punched Tommy in the jaw. Tommy stumbled back, stunned, then looked back up with an enraged face.  
The whole room seemed to get real loud, but muffled at the same time. All his senses where super aware and he became overwhelmed with the surrounding light and sound. He couldn't concentrate on anything but what was right in front of him. All he knew was that he had to get away and he had to get past an angry Tommy. Tommy reared back to punch Daryl, screaming, "You sumbitch. I atta..." but stopped short when Daryl smashed a rather expensive looking lamp into his head. Daryl dropped the broken lamp and made a run for the door. He felt hands grabbing at him trying to hold him down, but they let go when Daryl swung his fist out with a defiant scream, hitting faces and crushing bone.  
Daryl made a run for his truck and high tailed it to his house. When his got home he crawled into his bed, in complete darkness curled up in his covers, and tried his best not to cry.  
Present...  
Of course none of them assholes remembered a single thing from that night, only Daryl. And unsurprisingly, Daryl never went with them anywhere after that either. He never felt comfortable around Tommy again after that, he never went with him alone anywhere. Sometimes he'd catch him looking at him a certain way and he wondered if he was secretly gay, and that night the drugs let him slip up. He smirks when he thinks what Merle would do if he found out.  
"Ey, Daryl. Where ya goin'?" Tommy asks flamboyantly, with his stupid, perpetual grin in place. Man, he really hated that guy.  
"Don't worry boys, he's just goin' to change his tampon. He bought some fresh ones earlier today," Merle says to them, which earns him cackles from the group. Daryl just growls at him, earning bigger grins from them.  
"Fuck off, Merle," Daryl says, walking away with a sneer. Any chance of his Zen staying undisturbed is ruined just then.  
"Awe, come on Darlena. Don' be like tha'. You know we's just havin' some fun. You know it was funny," Merle yells out into the bar.  
He can feel their stares going into his back, but he ignores it and finds a nice empty booth in the corner of the bar, far away from Merle and his buddies' goading. "Yeah, whatever," Daryl mumbles to himself.  
Ten minutes later he's still sitting alone, looking down restlessly peeling and unpeeling the label of his bud light bottle when a shadow blocks the light at the end of the table. Daryl looks up from his rumination to see who's standing there.  
"Is that seat tak'n?" Jon Wesley asks, gesturing to the empty bench across from Daryl with his head.  
Daryl meets his grey eyes with his own briefly before shaking his head and looking back down at the beer bottle in hand. "Rough day today?"  
Daryl scoffs. "Yeah, you could say that," he says with a tired chuckle.  
Jon looks over at the bar and at Merle carrying on with his buddies loudly. "Didn't want to hang around that for too long, I see… I don't blame ya. I get enough of shit like that with my employees. Young assholes prancin' around like they know more than people who's been doin' the shit they're doin' now since they were shittin' their britches," Jon gripes while sipping his own beer.  
Daryl looks up from his bottle and almost smiles. "Amen, brother. I don' think I coulda put it better myself."  
"I think when I get home I'm gonna fall asleep in my recliner… and sleep there all night," Jon says with a little humor.  
"I've done that a coupla times myself, still not as good as the bed, though," Jon grunts in agreement.  
"Although recently, I've seemed ta have lost my chair ta Merle. I've considered several things I could do ta get 'im out, but each one would prolly result with me getting my ass beat," Daryl explains.  
Jon looks thoughtful, then he grins devilishly, his brown and red mustache dramatizing the action. "I know what you could do ta make 'im keep out of yer chair."  
"What?" Daryl asks with a crooked grin, now curious of what his mastermind plan would be, knowing he could come up with some seriously mean shit.  
Jon's about to respond but is interrupted by a group of three men appearing abruptly at the end of their table, each man pinning Daryl down with a hard stare that could peel that paint off of walls, and Daryl just stares equally as hard right back at him.  
"We want our money, Dixon," the black haired, tattooed guy in the middle says.  
"I don't know what the hell ya talking 'bout," Daryl responds honestly, muscles tensing, starting to get pissed off.  
The big fat guy on the left gets closer threateningly and says, "Are ya def. The man asked for our money. Now you're gonna give us this money," he finishes, getting real close.  
"I suggest ya get outa mah face, before ya make me do sum'm ya gonna regret," Daryl warns coolly. "Because I don't owe you no DAMN MONEY!" Daryl says, hollering at the end.  
Apparently, Tattoos didn't take to kindly to Daryl screaming in Fatty's face because immediately after he grabs Daryl by the hair with one hand and under the arm with the other and yanks him out of the booth so suddenly it could have given him whiplash.  
Daryl lands hard with a grunt on the table sitting closest to their booth, knocking it over. The people sitting in the chairs scramble to their feet in shock of having a person fly in-between them.  
Everything goes quite in the bar. Then chaos erupts and the bar goes crazy.  
Daryl's pretty sure he has broken glass stuck in his back from his harsh landing on the table, but he ignores the sting as he jumps up from the floor because the men are advancing on him. Tattoos punches Daryl in his left eye, but screams when he hits metal instead of bone, and retracts his fist with broken, bloody knuckles.  
Daryl wants to laugh, but doesn't have the time because the third guy and Fatty both punch him in the stomach at the same time causing him to double over. Fatty takes advantage of this and knees Daryl in the face.  
Daryl gasps from the loud pop inside of his head and searing hot pins and needles he feels in his temples and behind his nose and eyes, but from this perspective he gets a perfectly nice view of a .45 tucked neatly away in Fatty's waistband. 'Sumbitch!' He quickly gets his baring in time to actually see this guy make move for it, but before he can do that Daryl punches him in the temple as hard as he can, using all his pent up anger as fuel. He grunts with satisfaction when the man falls to the ground out cold.  
But he can't bask too long in triumph because Tattoos is raring his uninjured fist to punch Daryl in the face. Daryl ducks under his punch and uses both hands to push hard against his chest, making Tattoos fly backwards into another table, knocking it over. While he's down Daryl quickly picks up an abandoned bottle lying on the floor and smashes it into Tattoos head when he stands up. It first looks like it isn't going to knock him out, but after a second of wobbling he falls over, hitting his head on another table, no doubt making his stay in Wonderland that much longer.  
Daryl realizes that there should have been a third guy, but looks over and sees Jon beating the shit out of him.  
Somebody bumps into Daryl's back and he turns quickly to look and realizes that the whole place has broken into an all out brawl.  
Quickly, he walks over to Jon and drags him away from that guy he was beating and out of the bar. With a brawl like this there'll be no doubt that the cops will be coming and he doesn't want his boss being stuck in the middle of that shit.  
When in the parking lot, covered from view by his truck and someone else's, Jon speaks up. "Well… that was fun," he states sarcastically while rubbing the bruise he has on his jaw.  
Daryl can't help but laugh out loud; he could feel the blood pouring down his face. "Yeah... real fun." He waves his hands for emphasis. Then he gets serious, "Ya wife ain't gonna be mad, is she?"  
Jon just waves a hand. "Naw, as long as I keep my dick to myself and come back home, she doesn't really give a damn what I do." Jon pauses for a moment and studies Daryl's face while he's thinking, "Did you know those guys back there?"  
Daryl shakes his head. "Never seen 'em before in my life," he mutters while he presses a rag under his nose, that he got from his truck, trying to control the blood leaking from his nose.  
"Yeah, they were askin' fer money."  
"Yeah, but for what do ya think?" Daryl asks and Jon ponders on this for a moment before he says, "Drugs." They both look at each other. Understanding passes through their eyes.  
"They got the wrong Dixon," Jon states coolly.  
"Or maybe not. That motherfucker prolly told them I'd pay," Daryl says, getting angry all over again. "FUCK! MOTHERFUCKIN' GODDAMNIT!" Daryl screams while kicking the tire of his truck. Jon just stands there patiently, not at all frightened by Daryl's display.  
Daryl stands hunched over still facing his truck taking in deep breaths, trying to calm himself.  
"I need a cigarette," Daryl croaks out, all anger previously felt suddenly gone, leaving him with other, equally as taxing, emotions. He pulls out a cigarette from his pack and lights it with shaky hands. Jon notices this and thinks of things he could say that could make him feel better, but comes up short.  
Daryl unceremoniously sits down on the concrete, knees bent up to his chest and his elbows resting on his knees, head hanging low. "He says he cares about me." Daryl pauses for a long time.  
"But he never does anything to prove it." He holds his palms up and shrugs his shoulders, staring off into space with a frown. Blood drips down his face, some getting caught in his goatee and some of it landing on his clothes. Jon had sat down on the edge of the sidewalk a while back, and was currently waiting Daryl out.  
"What today really proves, though," he pauses to puff on his cigarette, "Is that he don't give a shit about me," Daryl says crestfallen.  
"Today proves that… because he cares more about getting his precious," his breath hitches and pauses to compose himself," his precious crack, than for me livin' to see another day."  
Jon's eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean?" Daryl looks over at him.  
"One of them had a gun. I saw it. He started to draw for it, and I know he woulda used it. Thankfully, I knocked 'im out 'fore he had the chance, otherwise I'd prob'ly be dead right now," he says, a little more composed.  
Jon blows out a breath, "Damn."  
"I'm tired of his shit. Starting now, he either gets clean or gets out," he says with finality.  
Flashing red and blue lights penetrate the night as the police drive by.  
"Ya know you don't have to go to work tomorrow if you don't want to. I can handle things," Jon says to Daryl, knowing he's going to feel like shit tomorrow.  
"Don' worry, I'll be there… See ya later," Daryl says, opening his truck door. Jon raises his eyebrows at him.  
"Yeah… good luck," Jon tells him before Daryl gets in and closes it, starts the engine, and then heads home, not at all feeling guilty for leaving Merle behind.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
Daryl's head is throbbing. His nose stopped bleeding a while back, but that only helped the pain inside his head a little and limited the stains his clothes would have.  
He also can't stop himself from thinkin' about Merle's stupid ass. Daryl's so distracted by the annoying pain and the battle with his overpowering spurt of self hatred, a hatred of everything really, that he almost doesn't see the car stopped in the middle of the road.

The truck screeches to a stop as Daryl slams on his breaks at the last possible second, skidding to a stop mere inches from the car.

Daryl sits perfectly still with his eyes wide with shock, while taking a few seconds to compose himself, then feels the anger start to well up inside him. He hits the caution lights and throws the door open, and shuts it with an angry slam.

Daryl stalks around the vacant car to find its driver and give them hell. He hears running behind him so he turns to its source. He's greeted with a, from what he could make out in the dark, very worried girl emerging from the woods.

Daryl he stalks over angrily, "Why in the hell… is ya car parked in the middle of the FUCKIN' road?!" he barks at the figure. He grimaces at that feeling of his voice vibrating through his sinus cavity. When he stops two feet from the figure he sees that it's Satin standing there, meeting for the second time that day. He glances back at the car, "with no lights on," he adds.

She doesn't respond. Instead, she just stares at him with a weird look spread across her face.

"Well?" he asks impatiently, still no response.

Daryl scoffs, "what, ya stupid or sum'm?"

"Why should I answer your question when you never answered mine?" she asks defensively crossing her arms.

Daryl scrutinizes her irritably, "Are you fuckin' serious?!" Daryl raises his arms frustrated. "I could have just KILLED myself because your stupid ass left ya car in the middle of the fuckin' road, with no emergency lights on, for anybody to come along and crash themselves into!" Daryl's hands come down to his sides with a slap, after speaking with ferocious hand gestures.

"The least ya could do, is tell me why." She just continues to stare at him, making Daryl start to think that she's a little dense.  
Daryl shakes his head. "Man, I ain't got time for this shit." He turns around and starts walking back to his truck. He doesn't feel like wasting his time, and he wants to get home, take some ibuprofen, a much needed shower, and go to bed; it's been a long day. Hopefully Merle won't come back tonight. He didn't feel like dealing with his drunk, probably stoned, ass when he came back.

He was three feet from his truck when she spoke up.

"I don't know. It just died while I was driving."

Daryl stops walking and turns toward her. He looks at her looking at him. "What were ya doin' in the woods… in the dark?"

"It doesn't matter." Daryl looks at her harder, thinking about pressing the subject but decides to just leave it alone.

"Uh… was it acting up er anything before it quit?"

She shook her head. "I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary." She bites her full lip. "Do you think you could look at it?"

Daryl doesn't really want to. All he wants is his bed, to rest his aching muscles. But looking at this girl, it also won't sit right with him to just leave this girl on the road. He sighs in defeat. "Fine, but just a look, if ya need parts though, ya shit out a luck 'cause I ain't got nothin' to help ya."

She smiles at him. "Thank you."

She watches as he gets a flash light from his truck. He walks around to the front of her car and gestures for her to pop the hood. He lifts up the hood and sets it on the stand and props himself up with his free hand on the car as he's at work searching for the problem.

After a few minutes of searching he can't see any obvious problems that would cause the car to die on her.

"Keys," Daryl asks, walking towards her and extending his hand.

"Why?" Satin asks and Daryl cocks an eyebrow, still holding his hand out.

"So I can help figure out the problem." She continues looking at him, so he snaps his fingers, "come on," ordering her.

She relinquishes and drops the keys into his ruff palm looking away. "See?" He raises his brows. "Not so hard." He gives her a crooked, mocking smirk.

Daryl sits down in the driver's seat and puts the key in the ignition and turns it.

The car starts up immediately with no stalling or any other problems. Turning the car off Daryl looks up at the girl, miffed. "Thought you said there was a problem," Daryl growls out.

"There was, I swear. I don't know why it wouldn't start back up… Maybe just by you just lookin' at it, it came back to life," she offers lamely.

Daryl just glowers at her, unamused. "Riiight…" He stands up slowly. "Whelp, I think I'm done here." He walks away from her a little faster than he stood.

"Thank you," she calls out.

"Yeah, whatever," he mutters to her before getting in his truck and driving away.  
________________________________________

Walking through the front door of his home, he breathes out a huge sigh of relief, "fuckin' finally."

The first thing he does is go to the cabinet in his bathroom and take out some ibuprofen and dry swallow a couple pills. He looks over at the mirror as he screws the cap back on and puts the bottle back in the cabinet. He knows he should clean his cuts, but doesn't want to look at himself.

He walks over to it and is shocked at how horrible he looks right now. 'No wonder that girl kept starin' at me. I'm fuckin' hideous.' Blood is smeared down the side of his head. There's a pink smudgy film under his nose mixed into his goatee, which is remnants of the blood that was wiped away haphazardly. Both of his eyes are black, but his left one is by far the worst. That eye is swollen with a bleeding tear underneath where that tattooed asshole punched him in his eye and hit his metal eye socket. The two opposing forces caused his skin to rip open, producing half of the blood that's on his face. And he doesn't even know what his back looks like. He knows he probably has blood running down his back. He probably put blood all on the backrest of his truck's bench seat. But out of everything, his nose wins the award for ugliest deformities. It's blue, fuckin' blue! And it's two times the size it should be. There's no doubt that his nose is broken, but luckily, it doesn't look like it changed positions or that it was bent, so he won't have to set it.

Daryl goes to work washing the blood off of his face, careful to avoid his nose, wincing every now and then when he rubs a particularly tender spot. Looking back up at his reflection, he still grimaces; even though he looks considerably better he still looks like shit.

He wonders if he looked this bad when he was talking to Jon. Probably not because he would have protested more against him going to work tomorrow. He ponders if he should consider Jon's offer. Daryl rubs his face in thought and absent-mindedly bumps his nose. "Ah... Fuck!" he hisses out. 'This is going to be a long healing process.'

After Daryl fixes up his back the best he can and takes a shower, that's when he realizes that he was fucking starving. Daryl hasn't been this neglectful to his body's needs in quite some time.

Rubbing his face tiredly, mindful of his nose this time, he walks to the kitchen in just his t-shirt and boxers, hair still dripping. He gets out a couple cans of raviolis and heats that up for himself.

He's sitting in his recliner enjoying his quick meal while watching the television when the front door slams open with a bang. Daryl unintentionally throws his bowl across the room while almost simultaneously pissing his boxers.

Now standing, breathing hard from shock, he faces the door to see Merle standing there leaning against the door frame giving Daryl the evil eye. He didn't even hear anyone drive up.

"What?" Daryl asks crisply.

Merle approaches Daryl swiftly. "Ya gonna just leave me like that, Baby Brother?" He points at his chest with his thumb. He knows he shouldn't try pushing him too hard because of his current hostile behavior, but he can't stop his voice as it comes out of his mouth.

Daryl scoffs, "I'm surprised ya even noticed. Ya so fucked up most..." Merle grabs Daryl by the collar of his shirt, causing Daryl to wince at the quick movement.  
"Don't fuckin' go there!" Daryl roughly pushes Merle's hands away.

"I left ya because you're a pretentious sumbitch that cares for nobody except yaself." Daryl barely gets the last words out before he's slammed into the wall, Merle's forearm pressing heavily against his throat. The two eye each other heatedly. Daryl can tell Merle is on something by the way his eyes are shifting around.

"Don't fuckin' say that shit! Ya know I was the only one there for ya when we was kids, and it's the same now," Merle hisses in his face. "You was just a pathetic piece a shit back then. You only a little bit better now."

Daryl chokes and tries to gulp in air past the arm constricting his throat. "Ge' the fuck off me," he manages to grit out, but Merle doesn't relent and he presses harder. Merle continues flapping his gums, but Daryl doesn't hear because his lungs are burning and his brain screaming at him to breathe. He scrambles trying to move Merle's arm but it doesn't help; he's leaning all his weight into it, and Daryl is dead-tired. His vision starts to go black, so he starts franticly pushing Merle's chest with as much vigor as he can muster up.

Merle stumbles back, but before he goes he succeeds in grabbing Daryl's shirt and pulling him down on top of him to the floor.

Merle lands on the floor with a loud thwack and Daryl lands on top of him with a thud, muffling a yelp as he hits his nose on Merle's shoulder.

Merle recovers momentarily and forcibly pushes Daryl away with an angry grunt. Daryl flies over and hits his head on the coffee table.

Merle gets up and slowly and looks down at Daryl, scoffing. He walks over and settles himself in Daryl's recliner while Daryl's still curled up on the floor clutching his head. "I remember when you's just a little kid shittin' in ya britches. Barely could walk. I was the one who looked after ya sorry ass. Ma never cared. Dad… well… you know. I taught ya everything I know. Yep, it's always just been you 'n' me. And it ain't gotta change."

"That's what you think," Daryl mutters from his downed position.

"Excuse me?" Merle asks, looking down and leaning forward in the chair.

Daryl sits up, squinting his eyes at Merle. "You think things ain't gotta change, but they do," he says with purpose.

Merle just chuckles. "Is that right?" he asks mockingly, enunciating each word carefully.

"You better fuckin' believe it because this thing you got goin' on… I ain't fuckin' puttin' up with it anymore!" Daryl says without losing eye contact. "You're the one who's a fuckin' waste a space! Not me! At least I have a fuckin' job… and don't sit around all day drinking beer, shootin' the shit, bangin' whores, and usin' all my money! But... but you! All you fuckin' care about is your drugs! You don't fuckin' care about me!" he screams, shaking with weakly controlled anger. "If ya cared about me even a fraction of what you say you do," he explicates gratingly, " You wouldn't be willin' ta trade my life for one a ya scores." At this point, Daryl's leaning over the armrest of his chair pointing a shaky finger in Merle's face. "And get out'a mah fuckin' chair!" he hisses.

"Your chair?" Merle scoffs in his face. "Boy I think you are mistaken. This chair is mine." He pats the armrest.

"You didn't fuckin' buy it. 'An I'm tellin' ya now," Daryl warns. "Get. Out. Of. My. Fuckin' chair!" Daryl's eyes are on fire, his face red.

"Oh?" Merle mocks, eyes darkening. "Make me."

Those are the words that make Daryl snap. Violently shaking, with red filtered vision, he grabs the back of his chair and thrusts it forward, causing Merle to tumble to the floor with the chair landing on top of him.

Daryl vigorously kicks his chair over to the side, too caught up in his rage to care about damaging his furniture. He crouches forward and grabs Merle roughly by his vest, bringing his face an inch from his own, Merle looking at him with surprise.

"Ya know I coulda died today 'cause a you?" Daryl spits out.

"How's tha'?"

"Ya drug buddies paid me a visit in Chitlin," Daryl adds, knowing it would kick in sooner or later.

Merle stares at him blankly. "I don't know what ya talkin' 'bout," he lied.

"No, you do. Ya knew what you was doin' when ya did it, too! Ya drug buddies showed up tonight. They was gonna kill me if I didn't give 'em their money, the money that you owe them. I'm fuckin' sick of your shit. I want you out of my house," he says standing up. Merle just gapes at him. "I'm fuckin serious Merle. I've tried to get you ta stop, but you don't ever listen. You've been moochin' off me fer too damn long."

"You can't do that," Merle says doubtfully, with a hint of worry.

"Yes I can. Watch me." Daryl marches to Merle's room. Merle follows closely, trying to intervene by grabbing Daryl's arms holding him in place while they're in the hallway.

"You don't fuckin' need to go in there!" Daryl turns around and punches Merle in his adam's apple. Merle lets go, coughing and grabbing his throat. He looks up and sees Daryl a foot from his door. Merle rushes forward and tackles Daryl to the floor and they roll around, cussing each other out, trading punches. Daryl manages to get the upper hand flips Merle underneath him. He grabs Merle by his head and starts banging it on the floor while he was getting pelted with punches. Merle punches Daryl in his nose, which stops his ministration of trying to beat Merle's brain out. Merle flips around and gets Daryl in a choke hold, trapping him. Daryl starts to panic, having flashback of his childhood come back to him. He starts flailing his arms, losing oxygen quickly; he does the only thing he can think of and starts aiming for Merle's nuts, hitting them as hard as he can. Merle lets go of his choke hold, favoring holding his aching balls to holding Daryl's throat.

Daryl gets up quickly and enters Merle's room and grabs piles of the first thing he sees, random clothes, which are lying all over the room in piles. He briskly walks past a disquieted Merle, throws the front door open, and dumps the clothes in the front yard. He rushes back in and into Merle's room and grabs more of his clothes and when he gets to the door of the bedroom he hesitates. "Fuck it." He turns around and opens the bedroom window and starts shoving more of Merle's shit out the window.

"Hey! Hey! What are ya doin'? No. You can' do that!"

"I'm getting'rid of ya stuff, Merle. Ya'd want to take this shit with ya, right?" Daryl says raspily. Merle just disappears and Daryl continues to carelessly throw Merle's worthless junk out of the window.

When Merle comes back he has the clothes Daryl rushes towards Merle and snatches the clothes from his grip, "I tol' you! Ya not fuckin' stayin' 'ere!"

Merle and Daryl start tousling over the clothes, fumbling, and Daryl ends up falling to the floor landing beside the bed. Daryl turns swiftly, ready to spring forward and tackle Merle, but freezes when he sees the items stashed under the bed.

He drags the bag of vials and smaller bags filled with white powder out from underneath the bed with a yank, clothes completely forgotten. "What the fuck is this!?" Daryl demands, standing quickly.

"Don' fuckin' touch that!" Merle warns darkly.

Daryl crosses his arms with disdain, "what ya gonna do... Kill me?" asking derisively.

Merle springs forward for the drugs, but Daryl throws it out of Merles reach and furiously pushes Merle away from him and gets in his face, Merle's eyes occasionally darting to the bag out of reach.

"I told you ta fuckin' keep ya drugs out a mah house!" He growls. "What ya got some stashed in my room too?" Merle's face goes blank. Daryl growls a curse under his breath. "Ya seem ta always forget something... This is MY HOUSE! Not yours! I let you live here! It's not a right, it's a fuckin' priviledge!-" Merle pushes Daryl backwards rushing for the bag of drug, but he's stopped by rough hands grabbing onto his throat propelling him backwards.

"Out! Get out of mah house!" Daryl yells, violently pushing Merle out of the bedroom and to the front door.

"No! Daryl! Ya can' do this! You don't have the fuckin' balls... I'm just gonna come back!" Merle exclaims.

They reach the front door and Daryl rips it open and pushes Merle out. "I'm fuckin' tired a ya shit 'an I'm fuckin' tired a you!" Daryl screams. "Don't even try comin' back till ya get ya shit together." He screams before slamming the door.  
________________________________________

Merle stares at the door in dismay. He can't believe the little shit had the balls to kick him out like that.

Suddenly the door swings open again and a hard plastic objects hits him in the chest then clatters to the ground. Looking down at the object he sees that it's a cellphone.

"There's ya fuckin' cell phone. Fuckin' use it!" Daryl yells while hanging out the door before slamming it closed the finale time.

Merle looks back down at the cellphone at his feet and picks it up bitterly before muttering to himself. "Fuck this. Fuck 'im, I don't need him."

"You're gonna regret this Daryl! Ya fuckin' hear me!"  
________________________________________

Daryl leans against the door after he shuts it the finale time with a scowl marring his face, listening to Merle screaming on the other side. He hadn't intended on kicking Merle out immediately after he came back. He was going to give him an ultimatum, but as soon as he saw Merle's face when he came how all of his earlier emotions came rushing back to him full swing.

He can't say he regrets what he did because he doesn't, but he can't get the look on Merle's face out of his head. But it's too late to go back now, asshole had it coming.  
Daryl looks around at the jostled furniture and then woefully over at his ruined supper on the floor by the TV. Sighing, he walks over putting his chair back in place. He mops up his raviolis and throws it away. He knows he probably looks ten times as worse than before. He can feel the blood running down his face. His nose is definitely fucked up this time around. He goes to the bathroom and looks at it. The middle of the bridge of his nose is bowed towards the right side of his face. He's definitely not going to leave it that way; it'd sure enough make him look like a freak. He exhales and places his finger tips on the afflicted area and presses in and pushes the bridge over to the left side of his face, he muffles the guttural moan escaping his throat by biting hard on his bottom lip.

When he gets his nose to look as straight as he can, at least as much as he can tell through the swelling, he grabs the hand towel hanging beside the sink and holds it to his nose in an attempt to control the blood flowing out. Unfortunately this isn't the only time he's had to realign his broken nose. Between all the injuries he's received from his job, fights in the bar, and times when he got the shit beat out of him by his father, he's had a lot of practice doing it himself.

He walks to kitchen in search for a sandwich bag to fill with ice. He sits down in his chair in the dim room waiting for the bleeding to stop. He wonders if Merle's still out there, just standing there staring at the front door like it would explain to him why his brother kicked him out regardless of him already knowing, but the rumble of a motorcycle being kick started answers his question. Daryl sighs to himself leaning back and placing the bag of ice on his nose. He hates that he had to do kick him out. He hates the way Merle is. He hates that he hates Merle right now. To sum it all up, he pretty much hates everything at the moment.

He gets up to go to bed, being to tire to do anything else. He turns everything off and he settles into bed. He's about to drift off when something occurs to him.  
'Fuck! I'm gonna have ta get new locks for the door.'


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

Daryl's awakens early that morning, but he doesn't know what caused it. He rolls over moaning and lies there with his eyes closed while all his senses slowly start coming back to him. All his aches and pains begin to seep back into his body as it slowly wakes up.

He's just about to slip back into slumber when he hears a creaking floorboard from the hallway. Daryl's eyes immediately snap open. As far as he knows, he's supposed to be the only one in his house; unless Merle decided he wants to get his ass beat on some more. Daryl props himself up on his elbows to get a better view out of his bedroom door.

"Merle!" He pauses to listen, nothing but the dull hum of electricity penetrating the night air answers him. "Merle! I told you to get out of my house." Silence follows again and then he hears what almost sounds like a faint sigh, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. _What the fuck!? I got fuckin' ghosts now!_ He mentally scoffs at himself.

Daryl slowly and quietly pushes his covers back and steps onto the cold, wooden floor with his bare feet. He stealthily walks his way to his bedroom door. Much more timidly he calls out, "Merle... is that you?"

Peeking through the doorway into the hallway, he sees nothing, no movement, just complete darkness. Something isn't right with this. Merle with his boisterous nature would have made himself known by now.

Daryl swallows and quietly makes his way back to his bed and retrieves Ida, his Springfield XD .45 that he keeps under his pillow. He named her after this one black girl he knew in high school. Anyone that was brave enough to mess with her or any of her family and friends got their asses beat. Daryl respected that.

Daryl soundlessly walks back to the doorway, peeking into the hallway once again and listens. This time, instead of calling out, he whistles a note. He pauses for any answering sounds, but the only sound to be heard is the eerie call of a screech owl off in the woods behind his house.

He almost can't even see. The world around him is almost complete darkness, except for maybe the faint glow from an electric clock. The only reason he hasn't stumped his toe on any objects or ran into the doorway is because he knows exactly where everything is; every creaky board, every corner.

He's just about to take a step towards the living room when he hears what sounds like a raspy breath, albeit faint, but definitely there. Daryl freezes, getting uneasy. Someone is here.

He walks slowly, gun at the ready, to the living room where he thought he heard the sounds come from. He gets to the living room and crouches in a spot where he has a view of both the kitchen and living room. Again he's greeted with the sight of empty darkness. He walks over to look behind the couch, while also checking around him in an attempt to keep an ambush from happening.

He's just stalking past the TV when he hears the sound of a boot tapping the floor right behind him. Daryl whirls around quickly and is greeted by a tall black figure wearing a cloak standing there defiantly, looking at him. Daryl points his gun at the figure, shaking it with each word for emphasis, "GET THE FUCK OUT MY HOUSE! NOW!"

The figure quickly back peddles and seemingly produces a knife out of nowhere and throws it at Daryl. The intruder bolts towards the hallway, and Daryl chases after the figure and risks a shot. The shot is loud in contrast to the deafening silence previously and it leaves his ears ringing unpleasantly. The figure grunts and grabs its right arm, rushing into Merle's room frantically with Daryl following closely behind. He gets into Merle's room just in time to see the figure scramble out of the window and take off, disappearing into the woods.

Daryl leans out of the window. "That's right! You better run!" he hollers into the dark.

He pulls his head back in and reaches up to close the window, but stops at the searing pain suddenly coming from above his left collarbone. He looks down and is startled by the sight of a knife sticking out of him. _Well fuck me_.

He grabs the hilt and swiftly pulls out the knife with a grunt and studies it in the darkness; his warm blood pools into the dip of his collarbone and cascading down his stomach from the newly unobstructed wound. It's not an overly big knife, but it's big _enough_ apparently.

After pulling the window closed he inspects his wound, bracing himself on the seal trying to overcome the lightheadedness he's beginning to feel. He's lost various amounts of blood under different circumstances during the past day and now it's starting to catch up to him.

He peels his soggy t-shirt away from his chest, grimacing at the sound of it ripping off of his skin, and pulls it off over his head with the best of his ability. He looks down at the wound, wiping the blood away with his shirt to get a clear view of injury. He determines that he'll need to stitch it. It's too deep to just put a bandage over and leave it.

Pressing the bundled up shirt to his injury, he staggers to the bathroom.

When he sits himself down on the toilet seat he starts stitching his cut with his mind restlessly thinking. Who the fuck would sneak into his house? If he didn't know any better it seemed like this person might've been trying to kill him… or worse. Would Merle send someone to… kill him? He doesn't think so, but then his mind goes back to the drugs still in the house. Maybe Merle sent someone to break in his house to steal the drugs back. But who the fuck would Merle know that could be _that_ quite. This person snuck up right behind him, and Daryl _almost_ didn't catch them. Daryl goes through the list of people that he knows Merle knows, none of which fit the description of the intruder. _Well, whoever it was knew how to fuckin' throw a knife._ Daryl scoffs and feels his stomach turning like he's about to throw up, but he forces it down. He has shit to do.

He finishes his stitch job and wipes all the blood away from his person, ignoring the unsystematic scars scattered across his torso as he works.

After he feels that he's gotten all of the stickiness from his blood off of his skin he goes into Merle's room. He looks for the bag of drugs that he knows should still be there and sees it lying exactly where he left it, flattened against the floor from the force of Daryl's angry throw. Well, he can debunk his drug theory.

Daryl takes the bag and carries it to the bathroom, pouring all the cocaine down the toilet and flushing. He puts the bags and other trash on the sink, intending to burn it later. He goes back to his room thinking maybe he could _try_ to lay down and rest, but he remembers that Merle had hid a stash somewhere in his room. He has an idea of where he might have hid it. As cliché as it sounds there's a loose floorboard near the corner of his room. When you peel it up it leaves a space big enough to hide something in it. And Daryl bets anything that's where he hid it.

He lifts up the board and isn't disappointed. He snatches the bag and takes it with him to the bathroom. He does the same thing as he did with the first. He puts all of the trash in a Kroger's bag to burn later and hangs it on the bathroom doorknob.

…

Daryl's day at work was slow and agonizing; his nose hurt like a bitch, especially when he would lean forward to do a job like install wiring close to the floor that would be connected to an outlet, it felt like his head was going to explode. And the fatigue from blood loss he experienced didn't help matters much. But despite the discomfort, no one bothered him. Just one look at his face told them enough that they needed to know. Whatever Daryl looked like, the other guy must look worse.

Daryl is just done updating his time book in his work trailer when his cell phone vibrates. He looks at his caller ID and sees that it's Jon.

"Hello?" Daryl asks.

"Hey, you got any plans this evenin'?" Jon asks.

Daryl thinks about it. He knows that he needs to go to the hardware store to get new locks for his front and back doors… and maybe some locks for his windows too. Right now Merle could go in his house at anytime he pleases because he still has a copy of the house key. But maybe he could fit in whatever Jon's thinking about asking. "Nothing too much. Gotta swing by the hardware store, get some new locks."

"Okay well, when yer done with that, think ya can come over to my house and then head out to check the game cameras?" Jon asks.

Daryl doesn't really have to think to hard about his decision. "Yeah, sure. I'll prolly be there in an hour or so."

They say their byes and hang up.

…

Daryl walks down the aisles, eyeing the different doorknobs begging him to be the chosen ones. There are several different types, but he settles on getting a couple for the front and back door that look exactly like the ones he already has.

He walks over to the next aisle and snatches up the first locks he sees that will work on his windows. He hopes that this will be enough to discourage anybody from trying to get into his house, although he has the nagging feeling that it won't.

Suddenly he has the overwhelming sensation that someone is watching him. That's not too unusual, considering at least a third of the population here wouldn't think that thievery was below him, but this stare doesn't feel like the typical stares granted by the common town folk. This one feels much more… predatory.

Daryl looks around him, not at all liking the paranoia beginning to set in, making his chest ache as the muscles tighten. There's no one around him that he can see, same as when he walked into the store. He doesn't hear the sounds of people that would be around in the store somewhere. The place seemed damn near deserted up until this point.

Daryl swallows down his anxiety and casually walks to the check out, covering his unease with a gait feigning confidence, a scowl set firmly in place.

He lays his merchandise on the counter and the cashier looks up from her book. She does a double take when she sees his black and blue face.

"What? Ya got a starin' problem!?" Daryl growls at her, scowling. The girl quickly looks away from his face blushing.

"Is that all for you?" she asks timidly.

"Yep," Daryl answers bluntly and sees movement from the corner of his eye. He cuts his eyes to the right and sees a man with long dark hair and a beard wearing a toboggan walking out from the back of the store. Was that who was staring at him so maliciously? Daryl suspiciously glares at him, but the man acts as though he doesn't even notice his existence.

"…Sir?" Daryl is snapped back into the moment by the cashier.

"Wha'?" Daryl asks shaking his head.

"That'll be eighty-six ninety-five," the girl repeats, staring at him with wide, curious, slightly weary eyes.

"Right..." Daryl digs in his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He pulls his debit card from its slot and hands it to the girl. She slides it through the device and hands it back.

Daryl snatches up the bag and looks over to where he last saw where man was browsing and sees that he's not there anymore. He turns towards the door, suddenly overcome with the desire to leave the store as quickly as possible. He faintly registers the cashier telling him to have a good day as he briskly walks out the store.

He feels slightly better on the drive home, like he's finally alone. _What the hell is going on around here?_

He pulls into his driveway and parks his work truck beside his shed. He gets out and walks to the front door. He enters cautiously, no longer trusting that his home will be empty when he returns to it. He walks around the house to make sure he didn't have any surprise visitors, and when he's satisfied he gets dressed to go to Jon's.

He puts on his usual attire; a black sleeveless button up shirt with tan cargo pants and boots. He places his combat knife in its sheath on his belt then grabs Ida and slides the holster for her onto his waistband and puts her home.

His inability to shake the feeling from this morning and the moment in the hardware store from his mind makes him grab Lil' Cutie, his Taurus PT 738, and puts that one in his pocket, just for good measure. He puts all his extra clips in his empty pants pocket.

After placing locks on all the windows and locking the doors, he gets in his pickup and drives over to Jon's house, hoping like hell Merle doesn't decide to break in his house and trash it.

He arrives at Jon's house shortly. He hears Esther's, Jon's Australian Shepherd, burly bark at his presence when he knocks on the door. C-Dog and Whorehound, Jon's less desirable hound dog mutts, annoyingly poke at his thigh and butt with their noses, and he pats them on the head while he waits.

Jon opens the door and welcomes him in. His friendly smirk quickly fades when he sees Daryl's face as he steps in the house and sits down on the couch.

"What the hell happened? I know you didn't look this bad yesterday."

"Merle," Daryl answers vaguely. Jon stops his gathering of materials to give him a look, imploring him to elaborate. "I kicked him out last night," he reveals. Jon looks at him and slightly nods his head.

"Didn't take it too lightly, I see," he observes, continuing to get himself ready. "Had it comin' though."

Daryl looks down at the coffee table in front of him that's littered with gun cleaning and making paraphernalia. "…yeah."

"Ya ready?" Jon asks, standing up to his full height and slinging his semi automatic rifle over his shoulder.

"Yeah." They both stand up and head for the front

"I'm makin' like a turd an' easin' out!" Jon screams to Diane, his wife, who's in their bedroom. Daryl almost feels like chuckling.

"Ya got yer phone!?" she shouts back.

"Yeah!" Jon stops walking and feels in his phone case. He turns around and sees that he left his phone on the armrest of his recliner, still charging. He slides it in the case and they continue towards the door.

"Don't forget about supper, you two!" they hear her yell.

"Alright," Jon says as he closes the door behind him, following Daryl out.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

They ride quietly in Jon's Chevy Luv as he drives through the woods on the beaten path to the game camera that's closest to Jon's house first, the rumble of the motor the only sound to fill the silence. Daryl's having problems relaxing his nerves. Something he's not use to, he's usually able to put a rein on how he feels and his emotions so that he at least _appears_ Zen. Not today, he couldn't sit still save his life. He's staring off into space while rubbing his face uneasily while he nervously bounces his leg; every now and then he'd shift his position, no longer finding his current position comfortable. But Daryl's not the only one who's bothered by his inability to relax.

"What the hell's wrong with you? Yer all fidgety…" Jon glances over at Daryl.

"Nothin's wrong." Daryl lies unpersuasively.

"Bullshit." Jon glances over at Daryl skeptically. "I know somthin's botherin' ya. You can't sit still for shit," he adds with a hint of annoyance. "And yer hand hasn't left your face since you've been in here."

Daryl huffs and drops his hand into his lap with a slap glaring out of the window. He doesn't really feel up to talking about it, but at the same time it's all he seems to be able to think about. Every time he turns a corner he almost has the instinct to peek first. He starts gnawing on his thumb.

"I don' know, man." Daryl speaks slowly past his thumb, feeling very bedeviled.

Jon remains quite waiting for Daryl to continue, although wishing he'd take his thumb out of his mouth when he speaks.

Daryl hesitates for a long time before ultimately telling him what's been bothering him. "I woke to someone fuckin' sneakin' around my house this mornin'… at 4:00."

"Serious?" Jon looks alarmed, not at all expecting that to fall from Daryl's mouth.

"That's not even all of it. When I finally saw the fucker they threw a fuckin' knife at me. Got me right here," He lightly touches the wound that's bandaged underneath his shirt, "Got my own shot in at least. The arm I think."

"Huh, ya think the cops would do anything?"

"Hell no. What ya think they can do with the description; a person wearing all black, skinny, a little shorter than me. S'not much ta base an investigation on. The only thing that might be any use to 'em is the knife the guy used. But I doubt our police system is that advanced ta make any a the connections."

"It wouldn't surprise me none." Jon shakes his head.

They ride in silence and Jon can tell that there's something he hasn't said because he holds that hesistant posture someone has when they're about to say something, but don't know how to word it, but he doesn't have to ask because Daryl finally speaks up.

"When I was in the hardware store, I felt someone starin' at me. Not one of them suspicious stares I usually get, but sum'm more… malicious. I don't know, it didn' feel right…"

"You think someone's stalking you?" Jon asks quirking an eyebrow.

"I don't know, man…" Daryl says shaking his head. "Why would someone want to?"

Jon shrugs and stops the truck just off the dirt road by the trail that would lead to the game camera. They get out and tread through the greenery towards the camera.

The walk through the woods helped sooth Daryl's nerves, the smell of the forest and the calls of the birds and chatter of squirrels brought back feelings of slightly happier times, and he lost himself in that. They arrived at the camera shortly and Daryl walk up to it and takes its card out while Jon puts in an empty one to replace it.

"What ya say we go check the other one?" Jon asks. Daryl scratches his chin with his thumb.

"Sure, sounds fine ta me." Daryl answers, feeling a little lighter.

They walk back to the truck and drive deeper into the woods that would be behind Daryl's house if they set out walking into the woods from there and kept going straight for about two miles.

The trek to this camera from the beaten path is much farther than the one closer to Jon's house.

On the way there they make casual conversation while Daryl looks at the ground for tracks out of sheer habit. He didn't see anything interesting other then maybe the random deer or raccoon prints. After a while he notices a change in what he was seeing. It was a bunch of sloppy tracks backs that crossed paths with the trail. He raises a brow at them

"Someone's been walking all through these woods, Jon." Daryl observes pointing at the evidence.

Jon looks at the ground and scoffs, "yeah well, they better hope I don't catch 'em.

They continue on and the marks crossing the trail disappear, so he focuses on the sounds of nature, forcing it to calm his recurringly bothered nerves and put any troubled thoughts away. He was succeeding until he comes upon drag marks crossing his path. He stops abruptly.

Jon looks over frowning and stops as well. "What is it?" He asks sounding impatient. Daryl gestures to the marks on the ground with his head and Jon looks.

"Drag marks?" Jon asks looking back up to meet his face sounding more curious than annoyed now.

"It's not from a deer, too small. But your prob'ly knew that..." Daryl looks down and points. "You can see where the heels from a pair of boots were drug through the dirt…" Daryl trails off; his pointing hand slowly coming back down to his side as he stands up straight.

They both eye each other for a second before both simultaneously start following the drag marks, careful to not leave to obvious of tracks, just incase.

They follow the trail, with Daryl leading the way, finding random trash thrown down all throughout the journey. It's when he starts smelling the sickly sweet smell of death that Daryl starts to really wonder who the fuck made these tracks.

As they walk farther, the smell gets stronger. And not long after they can see a body lying on the forest floor in the distance. The both approach it slowly. What Daryl sees is enough to make his skin crawl.

It's the body of a coyote. But that's not the problem, coyotes are fuckin' everywhere, losing a few is no skin off his back. It's how it died that's so bothersome. It looked like it's head had been caught in a snare and then its head was chopped off, from what he could tell was probably a machete. But it didn't stop there. After whoever did this chopped its head off they proceeded in chopping its head in half, then in thirds, and fourths. Basically reducing its head to bloody mashed potatoes and fur. All of its feet were sawed off along with its tail. But the most disturbing part of it all was the message carved into the side of the carcass. 'Go Back!'

Out of the corner of his eye Daryl sees an upward movement. He looks over and sees Jon lift up his phone and take a picture. Daryl looks at Jon incredulously. "What?" Jon whispers, overcome with the feeling to be quiet, and shrugs, "it's evidence."

"Tha's really fucked up." Daryl quietly states looking at the mutilated body.

Jon looks at the carcass. "It looks like someone _really_ doesn't want us comin' this way." He looks at Daryl again, "Daryl, you got some really deranged people runnin' around behind yer house. Maybe-"

"Stop… jus' stop." Daryl says glaring at him holding up a hand, while Jon suppresses a smirk. The seriousness of the situation kicks in again and the feeling to smirk quickly fades.

Daryl looks back at the carcass for a moment then back at Jon. "Ya want ta keep goin'?" Jon meets his eyes with determination.

"Hell yeah." Jon answers.

The feeling of dread begins to settle deep in Daryl's bones as they continue onwards. The farther they get a faint sound begins to tickle their ears that seened very out of place. "What the fuck is tha'?" Daryl whispers.

Jon listens for a moment. "Sounds kinda like uh… motor… a generator." He corrects himself.

"The fuck's goin' on 'round here?" Daryl mutters to himself.

"What's that?" Jon asks.

"Nothin'" Daryl whispers back.

As they keep walking the generator gets louder. Eventually they come to a clearing and are faced against a shabby cabin, that looks to hold several rooms, that Daryl is most certain was not there a couple of years ago. "Holy Shhhit." Daryl hisses out almost inaudibly.

"You can say that again. It's like one a those places in the horror movies I fall asleep to." Jon comments offhandedly. Daryl looks at him oddly. "Ya think anyone's at home?" Jon asks, ignoring the look that Daryl's shooting him.

"I don't know, only one way to find out..." Daryl silently stalks up behind the cabin, Jon following closely behind.

Daryl presses his ear against the wall, trying to distinguish any sounds coming from inside that wasn't the hum coming from the generator. He couldn't hear anything, so he slowly peaks into the hole in the wall beside him, just a little higher than his nose, that was probably suppose to be holding a window.

The room was dim and was actually a lot bigger on than it looked from the outside. The room looked to be like some kind of bedroom that looked to be completely bare, except for the dirty mattress lying on the floor in place of an actual bed.

He walks alongside the wall until he reaches a door. He walks up the steps leading up to it and looks back at Jon arching a brow in question and Jon nods his head.

Daryl slowly and quietly as possible opens the door. Daryl steps in and almost back peddles when he's swamped with the humid, musty air tinged with the slight smell of death, as though bodies were previously in the building. He lightly coughs and covers his nose trying to resist the urge to sneeze from the overwhelming flow of dust and mold filling his nose, knowing that if he did it would hurt like hell.

He walks over to stand in the middle of what looks like some sort of den and Jon follows him looking around the room.

"How ya wanna do this?" Daryl asks putting his hands on his hips.

Jon mulls it over while looking around, "you can take that side a the cabin and I can take this side."

Daryl considers this for a moment and nods. "Yeah, that might work."

They walk towards their respective sides of the cabin and begin their search.

Daryl ends up walking down a small hallway that has three doors. One of which leads to the room that he peaked into earlier, he walks inside.

The room looks the same from the inside as it did from the window, the only detail that he missed was a chain attached to the wall at the head of the mattress; he eyes it wearily seeing a cuff attached to the end, one big enough to fit around someone's neck. He unconsciously starts rubbing his neck as he visualizes what it might've been used for, none of which were immaculate or probably even legal.

His eyes pan down to study the mattress. From the inside he could see the color of the mattress much clearer. He could tell it was suppose to be white, but it was yellow with a rusty brown red staining the middle. He shudders as more thoughts come swarming through his mind. _These must be some real sadistic motherfuckers._

Daryl snaps his eyes away from the mattress and stands up straight, quickly retreating from the room.

He checks out the second door and finds that this one leads to a room that's more or less used as a makeshift storage unit. It was filled ceiling high with boxes, with God knows what inside. Daryl furrows his brow at the wall behind the boxes. The walls are lined with tools, tools of all kinds. Some of which, have no business even being in the middle of the woods. He closes the door and heads for the last one at the end of the hall beginning to regret his curiosity for out winning the battle with his nerves.

He cautiously opens the door peeking in first, scared of what he might see in there, before stepping inside. This particular room had an eerie feel to it, not that the whole place didn't, but this room in particular had a creepy vibe, and he couldn't exactly place why.

The room resembled what could have been a kitchen if it were to have a stove. It had a refrigerator on one side of the room with connecting cabinets, which were covered in dust and grease. On the other side is a dining table with chairs placed at each side. The table was cluttered with so much junk he couldn't really tell you what was on it without digging through it. The room had a musty smell just like the rest of the place but this room had a funkier scent to it.

He looks back at the refrigerator, his curiosity again betraying him. He pulls the door open ever so slowly and is quickly engulf by fowl vapors formed by very depths of hell itself. His stomach goes into knots and he fists his mouth firmly while he tries desperately to control his gagging. The smells was something like a combination of spoiled milk, rotting eggs, and decomposing flesh.

When he moderately composes himself looks into the refrigerator through the light film of tears in his eyes with his wavering vision.

When his vision clears enough for him to actually make a straight picture he quickly discovers the source of the smell. Daryl's hit with an intense bout of nausea at the sight of several severed, decomposed human fingers lined out on the top shelf, all of which are missing their nails. He slams the door abruptly, as though the action would erase the image from his head, and stumbles back, not being able to get away from it quick enough.

He feels the floor dip dangerously low underneath him, but before he has any time to react he's free falling into darkness and lands with a crunch.

Jon wasn't finding anything of interest on his side of the cabin, just dirty clothes or random box lining the hallway and an empty room that smelled like human funk. The boxes weren't filled with anything sinister, just your mundane household supplies. He wonders if Daryl is having better luck on his side.

Jon keeps walking until he gets to the room at the end. More junk was sitting around the place, more specifically boxes, but one thing he noticed were different stack of pictures sitting on top of some of the boxes. He flips through the photos and discovers that each stack contains images of one subject, all of which are completely unaware of being photographed.

Jon takes back his earlier thought about not finding anything of interest, now preferring to have found nothing at _all_ than find stalker pictures of people inside a creepy ass cabin that has an over since of impending demise and the lingering smell of death to go along with it.

He continues to look at the photos noticing that there were notes written on a view in each of the stacks, the twinge of alarm in the pit of his stomach building with each note. He walks around going over to dreadfully see more of the room's contents and freezes when he thinks he sees the figure of someone familiar to him in an image.

"What in the _hell_?" Jon whispers as he approaches a lazily stacked pile of photographs on a desk with a desk lamp bent over pointing down at it, pen close by.

He leans over the photos picking up the top in the pile. "What. In. The. _Hhhell_!?" Jon repeats to himself unsteadily. He feels the cold prickle of complete terror overcome ever nerve in his body when he recognizes the photo's subject.

Jon looks down at the photograph of Daryl walking in the woods with his crossbow. Jon flips through the other photos, and is even more disturbed seeing that they all are of him doing one thing or another, all of which he's unaware were being taken. The last one though, was enough to make him want to quit and go home.

It was the black and white image of a battered Daryl sleeping in his bed taken by a night vision camera, but that wasn't all the showed. You could see the person taking the photo. Well 'see' is a bit of a stretch; the person's head was cocked to the side, wearing night vision goggles, ones that if he wasn't so disturbed he would have been impressed that they even owned them, a black half face mask along with a black cloak, hood over their face. They had the camera pointed towards themselves with Daryl purposefully to the left of them in the background. The person was holding up a coil of rope with a syringe grasped between their index and middle finger, the plunger resting on the pad of their thumb. Scrawled on the bottom of the photo was, "Soon."

_Looks like we just missed 'em._

His concentration on the disturbing image was interrupted by a strangled yelp followed by a loud crashing sound.

Jon takes off running to the other side of the cabin where he knows Daryl should be. He quickens his pace when he hears Daryl's terror filled scream.

Jon nears the back room and sees a gaping hole in the middle of the floor, the stench of death strong in his nostrils. He can faintly hear Daryl whispering a mantra to himself. Something along the lines of, "holy shit. Holy shit. Holy fuckin' shit."

He crouches beside the opening of the hole, peering down. He shines the flashlight that he got from his pocket down at Daryl's curled up form on the ground. He was staring off into the darkness walled eyed and face lacking of color, extending a lighter with a trembling hand.

"Hey, you alright?" Jon asks, but Daryl either doesn't hear him or he's ignoring him.

"Daryl!"

Daryl's head snaps up with a flinch, and it seems as though it takes him a moment before Daryl recognizes that he isn't someone else. "Help me the fuck out a here." Daryl demands, more than requests, anxiously.

"What'd you scream for?"

Daryl glances back at Jon and looks back into the darkness and points his finger while scooting backwards until his back bumped the wall. Jon shines his light over to the depths of the darkness and nearly drops it into the hole. This was a damn slaughter house. "I think we need to call the cops." Jon muses, with anti-humor.

"Fuck the cops! Call the fuckin' FBI!" Daryl demands frantically.

Jon helped Daryl out of the hole, after concluding that there was no other way out that they could see. Now they were hurrying back to their truck to wait for the cops to arrive and show them the way to the cabin.

Now they're walking in uneasy silence. Jon's deeply disturbed by what he saw back there, and judging by the stiff and stoic disposition of his friend he feels the same way, probably even more so.

It was after they passed the mutilated coyote that he remembered that he still had that photo. Digging in his pocket earlier to retrieve his flashlight let him know that he must have stuffed it in there out of pure instinct because he certainly doesn't remember doing it.

He casts a side glance at Daryl. He was putting up a very convincing façade with his stiff, slightly uneven gait, favoring his left side, and frown set firmly in place, but he can still tell that he was deeply bothered the incident. "Hey." Daryl looks over with a scowl on his face. "I found something… _somethings_ … in the cabin that you might need to see.

Daryl stops walking and eyes him guardedly. Jon feels around in his pocket for the photo and pulls it out. He looks at it for a hesitant second before holding it out for Daryl to take.

Daryl stares at the photo for a long time before dubitably taking the photo from his hand to look at it.

Jon watches Daryl's reaction, not knowing what to expect from him. Daryl looks at the photo with a shaky hand and his face drains of its color leaving it so dangerously pale that he fears he might pass out from the sudden drop in blood pressure.

Daryl's breathing picks up and he looks around them like he expected to see someone following them. He can't really fault him. He'd be jumpy himself if he found out messed up people, such as these, were stalking him.

Daryl looks back down at the photo suddenly so calm that it concerns him. "That mus' be what woke me up this mornin'." He remarks, quickly pushing it back into Jon's hands. They continue walking and Jon begins to smells the scent of smoke from the cigarette and knows that Daryl had just lit one.

They reach the main path when Jon breaks the silence, "Hey, you gonna be alright?"

Daryl stares at him blankly for a few seconds then stares back in front of them as they trek through the dead leaves and past baby trees in the trail. He doesn't say anything for so long he decides that he's not going to, but his voice breaks the silence.

"I dunno…. Would you be?"


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The cops came after about 20 minutes of anxious waiting. They're none too pleased to see what Daryl and Jon had discovered in the cabin. Hell, neither were they.

Jon shows Sheriff Grimes the stack of photos that Daryl was the subject of, and even he is perplexed.

They have to wait for the medical examiners to arrive before they can really get to much done. Rick ends up calling up two homicide detectives to help him investigate. Rick had originally been in training for the detective agency, so he's qualified to lead the investigation.

After the medical examiners take photos of everything they'll take them to the county morgue, then they'll ship them off to Atlanta for them to be identified and have the more official reports and autopsies made on the bodies.

But since it will be a few days before they can even ship them, the do what they can with the evidence supplied by the cabin and Rick interviews Daryl and Jon about the cabin. Daryl makes sure to tell him that he's very sure that it wasn't there two years ago. He hasn't found it by now probably because he doesn't venture to this particular section of the woods very often.

After both Daryl and Jon are questioned, Sheriff Grimes tells them that they will probably get in touch with them if they have any more questions or information. When they finish that they both decided on getting the card from the game camera and going back to Jon's place. Daryl doesn't say a single thing on the way back and neither does Jon.

When they walk through the door Esther eagerly greets them with her excited whines, and supper is already waiting so they put everything they have down and go to the table, their minds still reeling over the days events.

Now they're all seated around the dinner table, eating silently. Well, that's what they're doing for the most part. Jon is eating, but not as enthusiastically as he would have previous to the events of the day, and Daryl is more or less digging around in his food, sluggishly taking little bites every now and then, but mostly staring blankly into his plate.

"Alright, what's the deal?" Diane's voice breaks the depressive silence.

Both Daryl and Jon's heads snap up, not immediately understanding her meaning.

Diane misinterprets their confession for something else. "If the food's not any good you can just tell me," she adds, crossing her arms.

"S'not that. Food's good," Daryl mumbles.

"How would you know?" Diane quips. "Ya barely even tasted it."

Daryl grimaces and eyes her harshly, but doesn't say anything. He looks over at Jon silently imploring him to tell her. After a couple of sessions with Daryl minutely nodding and Jon shaking his head, Jon sighs, this time shaking his head with resignation.

Jon looks over at Diane. "We found a murderer's cabin out in the woods," he says matter of factly.

Diane's eyes widen and she uncrosses her arms. "No fuckin' way," she says skeptically.

"Yeah, I fell inta their fuckin' underground lair… er sum'm," Daryl mumbles, sitting back in his chair as he begins gnawing the skin of his thumb anxiously.

"Wait… ya'll went in there. Are you stupid?" She says looking at both of them.

"We had to know, Diane. If we hadn't 'ave gone in there we wouldn't know. Would we? And then we'd have a bunch a maniacs runnin' around the woods an' we wouldn't know," Jon defends. Diane calms down, knowing what he said makes sense, but it doesn't mean she has to like it.

Remembering something Daryl said, she looks back at him. "You said you fell?" she asks. Daryl shrugs at her dismissively, still busy gnawing his thumb. "How far?"

Daryl's gaze shifts to the ceiling in thought, "prob'ly about…" his eyes go dull as he relives the moment, remembering, "… mm… 14 feet or so," he drawls slowly.

Diane's eyes go serious. "You okay?"

Daryl looks down and shifts uncomfortably. "I'm fine, ain't nothin' serious."

Diane didn't look like she believed him, but she didn't press it. They continue their depressing supper in silence.

Daryl has pretty much eaten all he's going to and now he's just playing with his fork like a four year old scooting it around in the plate.

"Daryl." He looks up at the sound of his name from Diane's voice. "You don't have to keep eating if you don't want to," she says sincerely. "I'm sure the dogs'll love ya for it," she attempts to joke. Daryl gives her a slightly appreciative look before pushing his chair back and lightly limping to the living room.

Diane watches with concern as he leaves the room; she looks at Jon, seeing him doing the same. "Is he okay? What the hell happened?" she asks him quietly.

Jon sucks air through his teeth before letting out a long sigh, "I don't know." He looks back to where he knows Daryl will most likely be sitting, confirming that he's out of earshot before he continues, "he said he woke up early this mornin' with someone sneakin' around in his house. When he found them they through a knife at him…" he hesitates before digging in his pocket producing a picture. "I found that in the cabin along with a bunch a' other pictures …" He holds the photo out to Diane and she takes it.

She looks down at it and studies it for a moment, eyes bulging, then looks back at Jon, mouth opening and closing trying to form a response, but a worthy one continues to elude her. She looks back at the photo shaking her head, finally able to put words together, albeit simple ones, "that's bad."

Jon scoffs at the understatement.

She puts the picture on the table, food completely forgotten, and gets up. She walks to the living room and sees Daryl hunched over on the couch, elbows resting on his knees and his hands covering his face. She can't quite tell, but she thinks she can hear him quietly mumbling to himself. She approaches the couch and Daryl looks up at her wiping his face. She stops at the end of the couch that he's sitting on. "I heard what happened this morning…" she says, and Daryl looks down and hums in response. "You know you can spend the night here if you want," she proposes, knowing he's probably not ready to go home and be alone.

Daryl looks back at her skeptically. "Really?" he says, a hint of hope in his voice.

"Of course, I don't see why not. You can use Joe's room, since he's not living here anymore." She shrugs. And she notices that some of the darkness in Daryl's expression relaxes just a fraction.

When she sits down on the other end of the couch Jon walks in with his laptop in hand. "Ready ta look at the game camera pictures?" he asks, feigning excitement.

Daryl shift on his end of the couch. "… sure."

Jon gets his Laptop set up to the TV and puts in the cards from the first camera. He clicks through the photos on slide show, not revealing anything too exciting. There are a few photos of some doe milling around, occasionally looking up at the camera and then disappearing from view. There's a picture of a raccoon walking through the grass and then the next picture shows that it's gone. There are even pictures of Jon's hound dogs, which isn't too surprising; those damn things get in everything.

He finishes clicking through the photos and it rolls back to the first one on the card. "Well, looks like it's time for yer camera, Daryl," he says looking over at him with an unreadable look. Daryl stiffens and sits up straighter.

"Put it in there," Daryl demands and Diane looks over, studying him. Daryl glances at her briefly before fixing his gaze back on the screen.

"Alright, let's see what we got…" Jon clicks through the photos, a little faster than he did with his, hoping with each passing photo that they will continue to be normal as they were. He keeps clicking, seeing the passing photos of a doe, a random dog, even a bob cat, which is a little more uncommon, but more welcome that what they could see. They continue to be mundane images until he reaches some of the night photos. He flicks through the first few quickly just as he did with the other ones.

"Wait, wait. Go back," Daryl says quickly. Jon's reaction is delayed and the photo he finally ends up stopping on probably reveals more than what Daryl thinks he saw in the first few.

They all gape at the screen, not real certain they completely understand what they're looking at.

"What the hell?" Daryl finally says, snapping everyone out of their trances. The image is the back view of someone dragging a large, black, filled garbage bag behind them. They're wearing a long coat with a hood, so there isn't much to tell them who it was, other than going by the size of them. This person is bigger than the person in the photo with Daryl.

"What's the next one?" Diane asks and Jon clicks to the next one, but there isn't anything in it. Whoever they were, were moving fast.

Jon clicks through the rest of them, but they don't see any more photos of the mystery person. He disconnects his laptop from the TV and puts Dish Network back on. They sit there staring at the TV without really watching it.

"I gotta smoke," Daryl announces curtly and walks out to the porch.

Diane waits until he shuts the door before speaking to Jon. "Daryl's spending the night."

Jon looks at her. "Oh, he is?" he asks.

"Yeah, he is. He's stayin' in Joe's room."

He simply nods. "Good," he replies, petting his cat, Shrimpy, that's sitting on his armrest.

....

"These are Joe's. They should fit good enough." Diane hands Daryl a small stack of clothes for him to sleep in. Daryl takes it and frowns when he sees the corner of a neatly folded pair of SpongeBob Squarepant's themed pajama bottoms peeking out from underneath a white t-shirt. He pulls out the bottoms and holds them up, eyeing them with his nose scrunched up, as much as the swelling would allow, and his upper lip curled up into a snarl, making his disdain very clear. He looks over at her raising an eyebrow, as if to say 'Really?' She can't help but laugh at him.

"What?" she chuckles, "SpongeBob's cool." He sighs, bringing the hand holding the bottoms down to his side.

"It's not that.. It's jus'…" He shakes his head and scowls.

"Yo don't gotta wear 'em if you don't want to, but yer only other option is just yer underwear."

Daryl's eyebrows go up to his hairline. "Wouldn't it bother you if I ran around in my boxers?"

She laughs. "Me?… No. But Jon… it'd prob'ly bother him. That's why I gave these to you," she says gesturing to the bottoms. Daryl growls and looks at the them again.

"Fine. I'll wear the stupid pants," he mutters lowly and closes the bedroom door after Diane walks out. He throws his boots off and tiredly undresses and changes into the clothes Diane brought him. Daryl sighs and drops his clothes on floor and sluggishly crawls up the bed. He drops down, two-thirds of the way, onto his stomach with his legs hanging off the bed up to his knees and lets out a pain filled grown.

He fuckin' hurts… everywhere, he's tired, and he's mentally exhausted on top of that. He's very grateful that they let him stay here for the night. He doesn't think he would have been able to stop anyone from breaking into his house and doing whatever to him because he feels like complete utter shit. He doesn't think he'd be able to sleep either if he was at home, only maximizing his torture. And he figures once he did get to sleep it would take a lot to wake him.

His consciousness slowly fades as his mind continues to ramble on and before he's completely numb to the world he's vaguely aware of the feeling of hands helping him into bed and underneath the covers.

....

Diane sighs and goes to the living room to hand Jon a cold beer.

"How is he?" Jon asks, noticing that Daryl hasn't come back out of the room yet.

"He seemed okay, but he's tired… and in pain, even though he was trying to hide it."

"Maybe you could give him something," Jon suggests.

"Yeah, I think I should." Diane turns around and goes to the kitchen and considers her options. She decides that she'll give him the choice of either taking three extra strength Tylenol or Hydrocodone, which would be more affective for his pain. She fills up a glass with water and takes the pills to the room Daryl's staying in.

She opens the door to the bedroom and stops in place seeing Daryl sprawled out on his stomach on the bed, his legs half hanging off, as though he was too tired to make it all the way up the bed. If it weren't for the light raspy breathing she might have thought he was dead. Her heart aches for him when she hears his pain filled groan. She knows he hasn't had it easy and a lot of it couldn't be helped because it had already been done, and now is definitely no exception. And right now he's hurting, but that's something she can help with, even if only temporarily.

"Daryl," she softly calls out to him, but he doesn't respond. She sets the glass and pills down on top of the dresser that's by the door.

She walks over to Daryl's side and gently shakes his shoulder. "Daaryl," she says closer to his ear.

"Huh," Daryl grunts out and opens his eyes a sliver.

"I brought you some pills for the pain, d'ya want ta take 'em?" Diane asks and Daryl closes his eyes and just lays there.

"Hey, d'you hear me?" she asks, shaking his shoulder again.

Daryl exhales deeply and shifts his body a little. "Yeah," he grunts out before sluggishly pushing his upper body off the bed and turning around, sitting up on the edge of the bed. Daryl's squinting at her with a deep scowl, so that his eyes look like slits, and his forehead is creased with pain.

"What'da say ya had?" he slurs out hoarsely.

"You can either take these extra strength Tylenols or you can take this Hydrocodone…" she trails off holding her hands out, each containing one of the two options. Daryl squints at each of his options and his scowl deepens even further in thought. After a moment of hesitation he reaches out for the Hydrocodone and takes it out of her hand. She hands him the glass of water and he swallows it, then noisily chugs down the rest of the water. She takes the glass and sets it back on the dresser along with the Tylenol.

"Now that's done, we can get you in bed… the right way," Diane says and Daryl grunts. When he goes to stand up he begins leaning to the side and stumbles trying to regain his balance almost falling over, but Diane reinforces his weight and helps guides him into the bed. She can tell he hasn't been eating well for some time now when she places a hand on his side for support and feels that his ribs are more prominent than they should be. She makes a note in her head that she should invite him over for supper more.

When she gets him situated in bed, she gathers his clothes, deciding that she'll wash them for him. She takes out his guns, clips, knife, wallet, and phone and sets them on the table beside the bed and grabs the glass and Tylenol before leaving the room and only shutting the door halfway as she sees a black cat dart through the doorway and onto the bed.

She chuckles to herself, thinking that over the years Daryl has stolen Jon's cat. Thinking about that makes her think about how Daryl was when they first met about five years ago. He and Jon had really only just starting getting along. He wasn't nearly as open with them as he is now; he was much more guarded, but it's not too hard to understand why when you take a step back, away from the crowd, and really see how unfairly people were treating him for sharing the last name of someone everyone hated; they all just assumed that he'd be the same way. 'The apple doesn't fall far from the tree' type of thing. But when Jon and her moved to Georgia, to this little nobody town, it gave them a fresh perspective of things without the persuasion of the towns biased thoughts swaying their opinions. But even then, Jon gives people a chance, to prove that they're the asshole everyone really says they are, so Jon would have figured out that Daryl's not the dirty redneck he gets accused of anyway.

Daryl started opening up to them more when he finally figured out that they weren't going to stab him in the back. And in a way, for both of them, he become like the little brother that they never had. Sometimes even he and Jon would team up and proceed to annoy the hell out of her. Sometimes they succeed in going way too far and completely pissed her off, which usually makes Daryl feel bad after the fact and would always find her to apologize, but she brushed it off, "Oh, don't worry about it. It ain't no big deal." And they'd laugh it off.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The first thing that he's aware of is the hot, burning pain of hunger filling his stomach. When he opens his eyes he's greeted with the sight of absolute darkness, but also the sickeningly familiar scent of mildew, motor oil, and rust. His breathing hitches as the panic begins to settle in his chest.

He looks around in vain. He can't tell where exactly he lays, but wherever he is it's cold and damp and he can hear the echo of a continual drip off in the distance somewhere. He can feel the cold cement floor underneath his bare ass with the damp air drafting over his naked skin, making him shiver. He quickly brings his arms up to cover his chest, in an attempt to warm himself, only for his arms to be violently jolted to a stop half way. His eyes bulge in realization, but he refuses to accept it.

He attempts again much more desperately only to have the action end with the same result. He grunts at the sting of the metal digging into his skin, but he doesn't care, he's overwhelmed with the need to get out of here. He continues yanking on the chains, wheezing out fast, shallow breaths. He can feel the slick, hot liquid ooze out of his wrists, shocking in contrast to the cold room, but he doesn't care. He _has_ to get out before _he_ comes down.

He freezes when he hears the familiar squeak of the heavy metal door from above. Daryl swallows thickly, dread seeping into every atom of his being. But something seems different about this time.

When the light spews down from above, he gets the first glimpse of his surroundings that Daryl now wished he would have never been privy to. Blades, chains, everywhere. It's these images that make him aware of the salty, iron scent wafting over from that side of the room that he hadn't noticed before.

Daryl is so transfixed on the bloody instruments he doesn't notice when the light is cut off and replaced by candle light. He feels a hard kick to his foot and he flinches, looking up to see his father, Will, leaning in real close, grinning at him deviantly. "Well, looky who finally woke up."

Daryl attempts scooting away but the chains cuffed to his wrist limit his distance. He tries looking away, but Will harshly grabs his chin and forces his head towards his scowling face. "Look at me, boy!" he growls harshly, then his face splits into a grin, "Ya need ta watch." He pats Daryl's cheek playfully with a cackle showing off his rotten teeth.

He backs up and flips his hand in the air, he hears the rattle of chains a second before four cloaked figures appear out from the darkness of the room. Will stops smiling and his face goes dead serious. "Take off his restraints," he orders standing back, hands on his hips.

The figures approach him swiftly reaching out to grab a different part of him, one gripping a wad of his hair and the back of his neck harshly, forcing his face down painfully to his knees. Daryl lets out a pained yelp when the action forces the cuffs to pull his wrist and twist his arm into a very unnatural position.

As soon as Daryl feels the cuffs leave his skin, he springs forward, trying to escape the figures looming presence. His sudden movements throw them off because they weren't prepared, so he unsteadily rushes past them, pushing them away in the process. He feels as though he might actually get away until his hope is wiped away by the iron tight arms gripping around his abdomen throwing him hard to the ground, making him lose focus and concentration.

His eyes focus again, his heart pounding as he sees his dad sneering down at him. "Looks like ya still a piece shit. Never was one much for gettin' one past ya ole man." His scowl deepens, "Ain't good fer nothin'." He stops and a thoughtful look crosses his face, then a slow, evil, knowing smile splits his face. Daryl shutters, never having seen that look before… on anyone's face, and is terrified of what the reason behind that look could mean.

He pushes himself backwards across the floor, attempting to get away from him, unknowingly pushing himself right into the arms of the figures standing behind them. They grab him underneath his arms and yank him from the ground, holding him in place despite his struggling.

Will approaches Daryl slowly, grin still in place. "There's only _one_ thing ya'd be good fer." Will's eyes roam Daryl's body, lingering on the scars that the wavering candle light made visible, making Daryl feel self conscious. He wishes he could just fall into a hole and disappear. Will takes out his buck knife and lightly trails it across Daryl's stomach. He sucks in his stomach, trying to avoid the contact, but it only results in him pressing the blade harder into his skin. He stops at a thin scar curling around his right ribs.

"I remember when I made this one. You were just a little shit, bouncin' around the house. I'd told ya not ta bring tha' mangy mutt inta my house. An ya know what?... The next day I come home, the first thang tha' happens when I step through tha' door… is I step in dog shit." Will chuckles darkly. "I remember I was so fuckin' pissed off." He looks up for a moment as his eyes go dark, his smirk still in place. "I fuckin' put that bitch in a bag, and then I threw it in the river. You could hear it cryin' all the way down.

"The best part was watchin' ya face as it slowly sunk into the river, 'Daddy no. Please don't kill 'im!'" he imitates in a high pitched tone. He scoffs, "You never did stop fuckin' up." He trails the knife over to his other scars. "All a these marks… are indications of every time you've fucked up one thing er another." He grabs Daryl's face again, mashing his cheeks forward making his lips pucker, forces eye contact. "Ya a fuck up, Daryl, and ther's only one thing yer good fer."

Daryl's blood runs cold at the look in his father's eyes. Suddenly he's being man handled over to the corner of the room. He tries fighting them but their grips are impossibly tight. He flails his right arm out trying to knock the person holding his waist off of him, but another person grabs his arm and thrusts it behind him, dislocating it with an audible pop. Daryl screams as pain shoots down the right side of his body and tries to free his useless arm, but they force it further behind his back. He loses what little control of the situation that he could have gained. He continues struggling to free himself, but each of them are grabbing him in several different places, gaining leverage; he can feel someone gripping painfully onto his penis, successfully making him feel trapped in their grasps.

They wrestle him on his back onto an operating table and strap his wrists and ankles into the leather restraints.

Will leans forward and studies his terrified son. He watches as he makes futile attempts of freeing himself of the restraints, all the while watching his stomach intently as it bobs up and down quickly with each frightened breath he takes.

Daryl can't help but feel fear as he watches the many different expressions pass his father's face. But the one that scares him the most is the look of lust currently plastered on his face, while his gaze is locked onto his stomach, as though he's looking through his skin and trying to see his insides. He would hold his breath if he didn't already feel like his lungs were burning for air.

Suddenly the air changes to something more sinister. Everybody presses down on his shoulders, arms, and chest. Will grabs his right hand firmly, squeezing hard into a knuckle with his thumb and index finger, keeping Daryl from yanking it away and keeping it spread outward.

Before he can think of anything else he feels the tip of a serrated knife grind into the outside of knuckle to his index finger. Sharp blinding pain overcomes him when he feels the blade sawing through his finger.

Daryl screams out only to be cut off by one of them clamping down on his throat, leaving the rest of his scream a gargled cry.

He tries, but he can't stop the tears when they began flowing down from his eyes. _Why?! Why would he do this to me?_ Daryl sobs. _Why don't he_ love _me?!_ He closes his eyes, letting the pain overcome him as the tears fell down his cheeks.

He opens his eyes when he feels hot, slimy fingers pat his cheek and he's met with green eyes looking back. "Ain't no time for sleepin', son... Ya have to watch," Will says adamantly.

Daryl's stomach growls, breaking the perturbing silence, and it catches Will's attention. He breaks eye contact to looks down at it with his eyebrows raised.

"Ya hungry, Daryl?" he asks, reaching a hand out patting his belly. Daryl swallows nervously, not liking the edge present in Will's voice. "Well I see ya hadn't been steelin' any a my food lately."

Will smirks deviously. "An' since ya been a good boy, I think I can help ya wit' tha'." He cackles, making his eyes crinkle, and he holds up Daryl's severed finger between his, shaking it for emphasis. And just as Daryl realizes what he's thinking, Will's already acting.

"Hold his head," he orders curtly. His head is forced down smashing the back of it into the table. They're crushing the sides of his head painfully, only allowing him to look forward at the ceiling.

Will's head comes into view and he roughly grabs Daryl's jaw, ripping open his mouth. He begins forcefully stuffing his finger into Daryl's mouth, but Daryl direfully tries blocking it with his tongue and it slightly works, which pisses Will off. He slaps Daryl hard in the face, stunning him into submission.

He forcefully shoves it down Daryl's throat and Daryl gags as his finger gets stuck in his trachea and he begins choking on it and coughing desperately. Will punches Daryl in the stomach and his finger dislodges and continues its journey down his throat.

He can feel it sliding all the way down and then sit there at the bottom of his stomach like a disgusting blob. He can feel his eyes stinging with new tears as he gags again, feeling like he's about to throw up, but Will covers his mouth with a firm hand. "You best not throw up," he warns.

He can feel the bile rising into his throat and he forcefully swallows it back down, with his eyes leaking fiercely, before he starts choking on it because Will isn't letting up. Even though he feels if he did manage to throw up, his finger would probably get hung up on the way and stay where it is.

He heaves miserably, making his muscles begin to cramp from the strain while he also feels the stomach acid burning the back of his throat. Will seems pleased and unpleased at the same time by this. "Not good enough for ya?" he asks, cocking his head to the side and removes his hand from Daryl's mouth. Daryl can't reply, he's too busy swallowing the extra saliva being produced in his mouth and focusing on not puking.

"No?" he asks, "Cat got ya tongue.. huh?" He rubs Daryl's stomach and looks down at it, raising his buck knife. He looks back at Daryl, meeting his eyes. "I think I want it back."

Daryl's pupils dilate and his heart begins beating out of his chest. For the first time he's able to get his vocal chords to work. "NO!" he screams.

Will looks at him with excitement. The knife descends closer to his skin and Daryl begins feeling desperate. "NOO! Daddy… P- _PLLLEEASE_!" Daryl begs, biting back another sob.

Will cackles and presses the edge of the knife into the skin about an inch above his bellybutton. Daryl's begging sobs dissolve into screams of bloody murder as he slices through his skin all the way across the width of his abdomen. The pain was sharp and he could feel himself going into shock.

Will delves his hand into Daryl's stomach cavity and he can feel him digging around inside, squishy noises meeting his ears. He feels him start to tug on something and he sees him start pulling out his intestines and laying them beside him on the table.

Daryl shudders and begins screaming uncontrollably.

_This is it. This is how I die._

His insides are basically mush by the time Will's done. He doesn't know how he's still alive. He can feel himself fading. He can hear his screams fading.

They unrestrain him from the table and drag him off. He limply falls to the floor letting them slide his body across it, his entrails trailing along the floor beside him.

They throw him on top of a pile of bodies, bodies that he suddenly recognizes as the ones in the cabin from the woods. He moves his eyes around in their sockets and sees that he's lying in the underground level of the cabin as well. He looks over and Will's in his face again. "I didn't quite get it… I gotta go in again." He cackles and raises his knife, Daryl's blood still dripping from it.

Daryl's eyes snap open with a gasp. He feels the bile rise up from his stomach. He desperately rips the covers off his sweaty skin, throwing them on top of the unsuspecting cat lying beside him, and quickly stumbles to the door, clipping his shoulder on the doorway on the way out. He makes a beeline for the toilet in the bathroom across the hall and starts retching noisily into the bowl. Nothing but small amounts of stomach acid and other fluids come out, splashing in the bowl. He can't breathe even though he can feel the air going in and out of his lungs. He continues dry heaving, groaning with each painful contraction, his body curving inward. The pressure in his face makes it feel like his head is going to explode. He's vaguely aware of the hot liquid pouring from his nose.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Diane is in bed at 2:00am, reading from her phone, with Jon asleep beside her. She's just getting into another chapter of her story when she hears a dull smack, then stumbling in the hallway. She waits for a moment, figuring that's its Daryl out there. She flinches a little when she begins hearing painful sounding retching coming from the bathroom.

She gets up, wanting to make sure Daryl's okay. She gets up and walks out to the bathroom and sees Daryl hunched over the toilet boil, dry heaving. She feels a spike of fear well up in her when she sees the blood smeared all over his face. She quickly gets a wash cloth and runs some water over it. She approaches him slowly when it looks like he's nearing the end of his dry heaving. She gently places a hand on his shoulder. He looks over at her with red, watery eyes and she hands him the cloth. He grabs it from her, with a shaking hand, and wipes his face and neck.

"Better?" Diane asks, but Daryl doesn't respond; in fact, she's not even sure that he hears her.

Daryl's trembling worsens and his breathing quickens. He falls back into the junction where the bathtub and wall meet while hugging his stomach, his eyes wide.

Diane approaches slowly, being sure to leave space between them. "Daryl you have to breathe slower."

"I c-ca-an't," he wheezes out through his breaths, "breathe."

"Daryl look at me," she demands and he does, although the face he's making makes her feel like she might cry. She's never seem him look so vulnerable. She takes in a shaky breath of her own. "Breath with me, okay. In through yer nose and out yer mouth, like this." She follows by demonstrating and trying to get him to breathe with her. And for the record, he tries, but with each failed attempt he just keeps getting more worked up, making it harder for him to control it.

Diane gives up the concept of space and places a hand on Daryl's back, rubbing soothingly, as she speaks softly in Daryl's ear. "Come on Daryl, you can do it." Daryl only grips his abdomen tighter and starts wheezing, his breaths hitching on the ends. Diane starts to panic. She can't figure out how to calm him down. What do you for someone who's having a panic attack?

She's not sure he even hears her anymore.

He begins frantically coughing and choking, trying to gasp for air, and small bits of blood spatter the corner of his lips. His gasps slow down and his eyes roll up into the back of his skull, leaving only the white visible. He exhales deeply and slumps over onto to Diane's shoulders.

Diane gently places him on the floor and quickly checks his pulse, the sudden fear that he might have died taking over. She's relieved to see that he hasn't, he just passed out. She grabs the cloth from earlier and picks up his head, placing it in her lap. She finds a clean corner and wipes the new blood from his face. She figures that he must have busted some capillaries in his nose during his dry heaving. It's the only thing that makes since. She refuses to think it would be from anything else.

She rubs his jaw soothingly, looking down at his unconscious face wondering what the hell was going on in his brain. She notes that his skin feels hotter than normal and moves a sweaty strand of hair that's obstructing her view before placing a hand on his forehead. She can tell he has, at least, a low-grade fever. She's never seen him act this way about anything and it concerns her. The feeling of tears pricks her eyes again. She bites her lip as she gently places his head back on the floor.

She quickly goes back to her bedroom and shakes Jon awake.

"Jon, I need you to help me with Daryl."

Jon stirs awake and grunts irritably before rasping, "What about him?"

"He passed out in the bathroom. I need you to move 'im to Joe's bedroom. He's too heavy for me to move him that far."

Jon lies there looking bemused for a moment, sleep still overtaking his features. "He's in the..." He looks at her. "He's not naked is he?"

"No. But even if he was, yer still helpin' me. Now get yer ass out of bed!" she says impatiently.

Jon sighs and throws the blankets off of his body and stomps to the bathroom and through the doorway. He stops abruptly when he sees Daryl lying on the floor, blood dripping from his nose.

"What happened?" he asks as he approaches him, concern evident in his voice.

"I don't know… I was in our room and I could hear him throwing up. I came over here to see if he was okay and he started having a panic attack. I couldn't get him to calm down." Her voice shakes a little. "I tried, but he passed out."

Jon crouches down over Daryl and studies him before he begins pulling him up, his head lolling to the side as he does. He throws Daryl over his shoulder and carries him out to Joe's bedroom. Diane follows them closely.

"Get out of the way, Shrimpy!" Jon yells at the cat lying right in Daryl's spot. Shrimpy looks at him with wide eyes. He gets up but doesn't move out of the way.

Diane groans. "I'll get him," she says as she picks him up and moves him to the foot of the bed.

Jon drops Daryl on the bed with a sigh.

"We should wait for him to wake up," Diane insists as she sits down on the edge of the bed, petting Shrimpy.

"Yeah," Jon says, settling himself down in the desk chair beside the bed. He looks back at Daryl's unconscious form and notices a splotch of blood forming at his shoulder. Diane must have noticed at the same time because she approaches him and grabs the bottom of his shirt, making to pull it up.

"You know he won't like that," Jon warns, crossing his arms.

"Yeah well, sometimes it can't be helped. We can get him another shirt from one of these drawers." She pulls his shirt off over his head and barely controls the gasp that threatens to leave her mouth while she hears a muffled "shit" behind her. He has dark bruises decorating his abdomen, some over his ribs, but what really catches her attention among all the scars scattered along his skin is the long, rough indentation going along the width of his stomach above his belly button. The intensity of the mark lets her know that when it happened it wasn't properly taken care of.

She pretends to not notice any of it and focuses her attention on the white bandage on his shoulder that's slowly being drenched in blood. She peels it off and inspects the wound. It's red and slightly puffy around the stitches that she assumes he did himself. She sees that he popped a couple of them, which is causing the bleeding.

She stands up to leave. "I'm gonna go get some disinfectant stuff."

"Yer just gonna leave me here to deal with him?" Jon asks, concerned.

"I'll be right back," she says dismissively over her shoulder as she walks out of the room.

Jon frowns and looks back at Daryl lying there with his mouth slightly hanging open. He feels for the guy, he really does. Daryl's really his only true friend. He has other friends, but none of them would have his back when he needed it most like Daryl would. He's good like that. So of course, he feels bad for him, but that doesn't change the fact that he doesn't want to be stuck in the room with him all alone when he wakes up. He's not exactly a nurturing type of guy and he's not prepared for how he'll act once he's awake; he has no idea what he'll do.

Jon's eyes dart back to Daryl's form when he hears a quiet moan, and jumps when Daryl suddenly gasps and sits up. He looks down at his stomach and notices he doesn't have a shirt. Daryl lets out a panicked whine and begins panting while desperately looking around, and then practically throws himself off the bed. Jon stands up quickly.

"Daryl where ya goin?" Jon asks, blocking the exit as Daryl makes a desperate run for the door.

"I have to get out.." Jon grabs Daryl's arms and Daryl tries to yank them away desperately. "Let me go!" he squalls, panicked.

Jon tightens his grip as Daryl nearly yanks him off. "Daryl! You need to calm down," he says, trying to hold his arms down. Daryl flails his arms trying to loosen his grip, racking sobs shaking his body violently.

"Get the fuck off me!" Daryl screams, this time almost unintelligible. Jon continues fighting for a grip on him as he spastically flails his arms in a desperate attempt to get free.

Diane comes running into the room. "Daryl it's okay. Yer gonna be okay," she tries, but Daryl continues frantically struggling.

"No! I don't want to go back!" he pleads and continues to fight Jon's grip as hard as he can. Jon's trying to hold down his arms, getting hit in the process, and keep him away from the door all the while Daryl keeps ripping his arms from his grasp, wailing incoherently.

Jon's inability to get Daryl to calm down starts pissing him off and he does the last thing he can think of. He slaps Daryl in the face with a hard, angry smack and Daryl goes flying to the floor with a thunk. He sees Diane approach him quickly from the corner of his eye.

"What the hell, Jonathan?" Diane pushes him roughly. Jon looks at her and then looks down at Daryl, guilt immediately consuming him when he sees his friend lying on his stomach on the floor trembling under his racking sobs, the sound of each whimper making his stomach churn. He grits his teeth and kneels down beside him with Diane, who's already kneeling beside him. He doesn't know what to say to him, so he doesn't. He just settles for watching Diane pick Daryl's front half up and hug his head to her chest so that he's crying on her shirt. She whispers comforting words to him as she pets his hair soothingly. He lazily wraps his arms around her waist for support, wadding up the shirt at her back with his fierce grip.

"He c-cut my fin-ger off.." Daryl squeaks out between sobs. Both of them look at him oddly as though he had just spoken in a foreign language.

"Who did?" Jon asks, not understanding what the hell he was even talking about, but just going along with it.

"He force f-fe-ed it to me-e," he stammers and both of them look at each other with wide eyes.

"….who did?" Jon asks again.

"Th-then.. then he c-cut my sto-mach open an'-an'..." He cuts himself off with another wave of sobs. Jon and Diane look at each other again, both just working out that he must be talking about a nightmare.

"Let's get you off the floor," Diane says to Daryl. She looks over at Jon. "Help me."

They both help support Daryl up on his wobbly legs and walk him to the bed. Daryl collapses and wads himself in the covers. Diane sets herself on the side of the bed and Jon moved the chair closer before sitting. Only Daryl's face is visible from the burrito he made himself into with the covers. They can tell he's still shaken, but his breathing is more evened out, so they relax slightly.

....

Daryl can't get the feeling of Will's hands digging around in his stomach out of his head. He knows that it didn't _really_ happen, but that doesn't make it any less real to him. It makes his skin crawl every time he remembers the way it felt to have the tugging sensation from inside of him, pulling in places he's never felt anything from before; it makes him want to throw up all over again. But the cramping in his abdomen tells him that there wasn't anything to throw up the first time. He looks over at his friends and it reminds him that he isn't with Will. He's alive, and Will's dead. He just had a really messed up dream. _A_ _really fucked up dream,_ he thinks to himself.

He can feel himself nodding off again but he's afraid of what he'll see when he does. When he passed out earlier, he went back... right where it left off. Will did things… things he'd never want to tell _anyone_.

"I don't want to go back," he croaks out, his voice huskier than normal from crying.

"Go back?" Diane asks innocently.

Daryl looks at her with his red, puffy eyes. "To my daddy's basement," he says quietly.

Her eyes widen a fraction and both her and Jon stay quiet for a very long time, afraid of saying the anything that might upset him.

Diane gets up and goes to get something that Daryl can't see past the limitation of his self-made burrito, but when she comes back he sees she's carrying fresh gauze and disinfectant.

"I need to see yer wound," she says to him, and he eyes her for a moment before unrolling a corner of his burrito to expose his shoulder. Diane giggles at his reluctance to leave the covers. Diane looks over to Jon. "I got it from here. You can go back to bed if you want."

Jon looks at her and then at Daryl, guilt still evident in his eyes.

"Go ahead, Jon, I'm okay," Daryl rasps. Jon nods at him and heads off to go back to bed.

Diane looks at his shoulder and frowns. "You busted the rest of yer stitches," she says, wiping the blood away, "and it's a little infected. You'll prob'ly need to take some antibiotics an' someone's gonna need ta restitch it." She looks at Daryl. "I can do it or you can, it's yer choice."

"I don' think I could, even if I wanted," Daryl says as he raises his exposed hand up, showing her its fierce tremble.

"Alright," she says and without warning sprays the disinfectant on his wound. Daryl hisses from the sting and wraps the arm still gripped in the blanket tighter around his chest.

"Sorry. Should've warned ya," she says. She pulls out the useless stitches and gets ready to begin putting in new ones. "Okay here we go. Shouldn't take too long."

Diane is just about done with the stitches when Daryl's stomach resounds a series of growls, long and low. Daryl's face heats up and his heart beats faster from fear and embarrassment as he sinks deeper into the mattress. The events from his dream are still fresh in his mind, even though he knows it's unreasonable to even relate the two situations. He tenses and sucks in his stomach in an attempt to keep it quiet, but it didn't work when he was a kid and it doesn't work now. It growls out louder this time. His face feels like it's on fire, and he can feel himself breaking out in a cold sweet, making him shiver.

He looks up nervously, but instead of seeing an evil grin or even a grin at all he sees Diane's concerned face frowning down at him. She hesitates before speaking. "D'you think you can handle a cup of broth, 'cause you need to take some ibuprofen for yer fever?" she asks before stepping back from the bed and going to the dresser. She digs through it for a t-shirt.

Daryl swallows and considers her question. He's fucking starving; it feels like his stomach's trying to digest itself, but at the same time he's worried he won't be able to keep anything down. But even if he can't keep it down, it'll feel nice to not have an empty stomach, if only for a moment.

He nods his head when she steps back to side of the bed.

Diane smiles at him and drops a black Pantera t-shirt before turning to leave the room.

Daryl reaches out and awkwardly pulls the shirt over his head. He sighs and sinks down further into the bed, wrapping himself back in his blanket burrito and ignores his grumbling stomach while he waits.

Diane comes back about a minute later and stops in the doorway with the mug in hand and smiles at him.

"What?" Daryl asks hoarsely.

"You just don't understand how adorable you look right now," she says through her smile.

Daryl's face heats up again. "Shut up," he mumbles bashfully. Diane giggles and walks over and gives him the mug. He holds it with a shaky hand and takes measured sips, the warm liquid soothing the ache in his belly. She hands him some pills and he takes and swallows them down with the broth.

"If you don't want to go back to sleep you can watch the TV." She looks around and grabs a remote and places it on the bedside table. "If you want anything else you can get it in the kitchen. Also, Daryl," she says, placing a soft hand on his shoulder and he looks up meeting her eyes, "I'm here, if you ever want to talk about anything." Daryl nods and she turns to leave.

"Diane," he calls. She stops and he reaches up and gently squeezes her forearm affectionately. "Thanks."

She smiles at him and pats his shoulder. "Don't worry about it. It's what friends are for. Oh… I bet I could find some Spongebob for ya ta watch." She smiles deviously.

"Get out a here," Daryl says rolling his eyes.

She turns and leaves the room laughing. Daryl enjoys the rest of his broth before turning on the TV with Shrimpy curled up beside him.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Diane opens the door to Daryl’s room and looks in.   He looks like a beat up little boy lying there with his arm curled around Shrimpy and his crazy hair sticking in different directions. She can tell that he didn’t fall back asleep on purpose. The TV is still on, though the Dish had turned itself off and only the message is floating on the screen, and he has the remote gripped in his hand.

She approaches his sleeping form, studying his face, hoping that his night was restful. It doesn’t look like he’s having a nightmare... or anything at all, really. His face looks completely relaxed, despite all of the bruising. She spies the forming of a new bruise stretching across his left cheek in the shape of a hand. Her irritation at Jon flairs up all over again. Huffing, she walks up beside the bed.

“Daryl,” she calls out, refraining from shaking him just in case he would have a negative reaction.

He stirs with a deep intake of breath and moans. He turns his head to look over his shoulder at her with tired eyes, eyebrows furrowed and his bottom lip sticking out just the slightest.

“How ya feel?” she asks him. He blinks for a few seconds and slowly scoots himself backwards into more of a sitting position, leaning against the headboard.

“I feel fine, I guess,” he rasps sleepily, stretching his arms above his head, grimacing slightly when it pulls at his stitches.

“Ya hungry?”

Daryl closes his eyes, a sound coming from his throat that’s something like a cross with a hum and a growl while he thinks. “I’m sure I could eat,” he says gruffly.

“I didn’t know if you still felt nauseous, so I wanted to give you a choice…” she trails off.

“French toast,” Daryl says quickly and Diane almost laughs.

Daryl looks down slightly embarrassed by his eagerness, “I hadn’t had French toast since I was a kid.” He looks up again at her unsurely, “That’s okay, right… French toast?”

She beams. “Oh, it’s perfectly fine. It was one of the choices, actually.” She pats his shoulder and he makes a face that looks more like a grimace than a smile. “I’ll fix some French toast. Just come out when yer ready.” She smiles at him then leaves the bedroom.

**xxx**

Daryl lies his throbbing head back on the pillow and stares at the ceiling, absentmindedly rubbing Shrimpy. That dream is the start of something he thought he had gotten over and it weighs him down with a heavy wave of depressing vexation that makes him feel hopeless. He heaves a big sigh and stiffly gets out of bed. His tousle with those men at the bar, along with his fight with Merle, is starting to catch up with him. His fall through the cabin floor yesterday certainly didn’t help any; he gained a minor strain on his ankle and wicked bruises on his ass and back.

He rolls his shoulders in a circle, trying to loosen up his tight muscles, and spots a small mirror on the wall. He knows he probably looks terrible, but he walks over to it and inspects his face anyway. His prediction is accurate; in all honesty, he looks like shit. Anyone can tell by looking at his face how shitty of a night’s sleep he had. He has dark bruises around his neck from being choked and both of his eyes are still black and swollen, making the bags under his eyes even more intense. But the swelling in his nose has gone down some, so he can at least tell that he did a pretty good job setting it. He smirks bitterly to himself. _Practice makes perfect_.

He runs his fingers through his hair so it won’t look quite so wild and flinches at the unexpected sharp sting that comes from his cheek when his thumb lightly brushes across it. He stops combing his hair and leans closer to the mirror to examine his cheek and sees the raw, reddish purple coloration spanning from the corner of his mouth to the side of his head by his ear.

He touches it again lightly with his finger. Wherever the slight pressure lands makes his skin feel like it’s being pricked by a thousand microscopic needles. He doesn’t remember how it got there, but shrugs it off. It probably happened sometime last night… and there’s a lot that he can’t remember from last night. Whenever he tries to remember it only comes to him in bits and pieces, and what he _does_ remember makes him feel a twinge of embarrassment swirl in his belly; he hasn’t been that bad after a dream since his early twenties. He’s thankful that he can’t remember all of the details from the incident.

The only thing he _can_ remember from last night with perfect clarity is the fucked up dream he had. That was too damn realistic to forget.

He used to always have nightmares, every single night. It almost got to the point where he feared going to sleep because he knew that he would find himself back in his own personal hell. He couldn’t get a good night’s sleep. He managed to keep Merle from knowing about it, saved himself from more of his shit. To his relief, he managed to get a hold on them and they stopped.  

Daryl sighs to himself. He thought he was fucking through with that shit, but apparently not. And there’s also something else he finds really distressing about the dream. It left him with that lingering, dreadful, almost depressing feeling that people sometimes get after a weird dream.

But that’s not what’s really bothering him . What really freaks him out is the overwhelming nagging feeling that the dream was trying to tell him something, like a symbol or some kind of omen. Of course he’s never believed in any of that before; he’s always managed to convince himself that it’s just load of horse shit. _Because that shit don’t happen_. However, there was a similar instance with a dream back when he was a kid about a year after his ma died. Now the dream is a bit different, but it leaves him with the same feeling.

In the dream he was running from a pack of wild dogs in the woods, which resembled something along the lines of German shepherds, but they were _much_ bigger. His eight year old legs were working overtime to get himself away, but he made the mistake of looking back and nearly tripped over his feet at the sight of them chasing him.

They looked even scarier then, but they didn’t really look like dogs anymore. Their legs were too long and gangly, curved inward in an unnatural set. Their backs were arched up like a territorial cat, but with bumpy spines. And their heads bobbed up and down violently with each step. The damn things looked more like mutated hyenas than dogs. Its face though, won the award of biggest reasons to shit your pants. Their faces were partially skulls now, their teeth being exposed completely; dripping with fresh blood, blood that he _knew_ belonged to his mother. He didn’t have to see it happen to know it.

He remembers it felt like he ran for what seemed like miles and all he could do was slow down while it seemed as though they sped up. The fear inside him reached its blowing point and he could no longer contain his panicked screaming. He screamed for help. He screamed for his mom, even though he knew she wouldn’t come to save him, and he screamed for Merle, his best possible role model that his shitty life had to offer. But the difference between his mom and Merle was that Merle actually came.

He ran out from behind a large thicket, wearing his hunting clothes and holding his rifle. He looked at Daryl and frowned; Daryl barreled into Merle’s body, hugging him tightly, gasping for air. Merle leaned forward, grasped Daryl’s shoulder tightly and peeled him off. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Daryl leaned back and frantically pointed behind him where he knew that the creatures were, “The dogs…” he panted. “They’re comin’, Merle!” he screamed and Merle just looked at him like he was stupid.

Daryl had looked back where he knew he just saw them, but noticed that they weren’t there, but he could still hear them. It seemed as though they had slowed down and he outran them quite a ways.

“They’re comin’ for blood, Merle!” he screamed. “They’re gonna eat me!”

The creatures popped into view and Merle twirled around and saw what he’d been talking about. He grabbed Daryl’s bicep and yanked him forward. “Come on Daryl, this way.”

Merle ran to a tall climbable tree while Daryl struggled to keep his footing and not get dragged across the ground. Merle stopped and pointed to a large cedar tree. “Alright Daryl, climb this ‘ere tree and ya got nothin’ ta worry about.”

So he did. He climbed the tree as high as the limbs would support his weight, which wasn’t much. The needles scratched his skin and made him itch as he climbed. When he found the highest place he stopped and looked down to see Merle walking away. “Merle!” he screamed at his disappearing back. He turned around and looked at him. “Merle! Ya not gonna leave me are ya?” Daryl could feel his eyes burning.

“Why? Ya don’t need me; ya got ya a nice cozy tree to stay in. Watcha want me for?”

“Please!... Jus’ don’t leave me!” he screamed in a scratchy voice. “I don’t want to be alone when they come!”

“You’ll be fine.” And with that he disappeared, literally faded away into the air. And the creatures found Daryl almost instantly. He was crying then. He was scared. There were at least eight of them and they all circled the tree. Daryl looked down at them with his blurry vision, finding a small amount of solace from the fact that they couldn’t climb, but as soon as the thought entered his head they began crawling their way up the tree, like fuckin’ bears. Daryl whined and tried to climb higher, that being his only escape, but the branches were way too thin and they snapped under his weight. He fell right into ravenous claws of the creatures and could instantly feel them clawing at his skin, ripping the meat from his bones. Even though he didn’t feel anything it still scared the shit out of him. He screamed. He screamed for Merle to come back and help him, but he never came. He was gone for good.

He remembers waking to the sound of banging on a door and his daddy’s angry voice yelling for him to shut the hell up before he came in there. He didn’t dare make a sound. He didn’t fall asleep again that night either. He had that feeling. That dreadful feeling that he’s feeling now that made him feel like the dream actually meant something. It was the next day that he found out that Merle left. He went away to the Military. The only thing he left that was even remotely close to a goodbye was a yellow notepad stuck to his door saying, “Drafted to the Military, don’t mess shit up,” which he could only understand the gist of.

He doesn’t really make the connection between the two things until later. His dream practically told him that his brother was going to leave him to the wolves… and that’s pretty much what happened. But Daryl has always chalked that up to sheer coincidence. But the fact that that he’s feeling the same way again sets him on edge a little.

He shudders when he thinks of what the hell the dream he had last night could possibly be telling him. He hopes like hell that what he’s feeling is him just being paranoid, so he forces it out of his mind.

Daryl clears his throat and realizes he’s been staring at his face in the mirror this whole time. He flexes his bruised and scabbed knuckles before arching his back. He relishes in the way it pops and stands upright, mashing his hair down with a sigh. He shakes his head, trying to chase away the bad memories of his depressing life. He was about to go eat something he hasn’t tasted for _years._ He doesn’t really feel all that hungry, but he’s not going to let that stop him from enjoying this.

He inhales deeply and lets it out, really missing his smokes. He wonders where the fuck they are. He shakes his head again. He’ll find them later. He rubs his hands together. _Time to go eat some French toast,_ he thinks to himself, making himself perk up just the slightest.

When he walks into the kitchen he’s greeted with the delicious scent of cinnamon and butter. He places a hand on his stomach when he feels it rumble. Diane turns around and gestures for him to take a seat at the table. He walks over and sits down and she places a plate full of French toast in front of him along with a fork.

“Whatcha want ta drink?” Diane asks him. “Milk or OJ?”

“OJ’s fine,” he mutters out before stuffing a large bite in his mouth. It seems to wake his brain up enough for him to realize just how hungry he is. He has half of his food eaten by the time Diane sets his juice beside his plate. She gapes at him for a second before shaking her head quickly and smiling widely. “I have more ready if you want,” she offers and Daryl looks up at her with his mouth full, still chewing. He tries to say something to her, but can’t get it out past the dense consistency of food. He swallows it down and tries again.

“This’s really good.” He points down to the almost empty plate with his fork. “Yeah, I think I’ll have s’more.”

She turns around and grabs a platter, brings it to the table and pushes more toast on his now empty plate, and fixes a plate of her own before sitting down a couple places away.

He continues eating and pauses half way through to take a drink from his orange juice and sees Diane grinning at him through the bottom of his glass. He pauses mid sip, looking at her, and then swallows and puts the glass back on the table. “Ya know. Ya enjoyin’ this way too damn much,” Daryl says taking another bite and gesturing from his plate to his mouth.

“I just really enjoy it when people enjoy my food,” she says with a smile and starts eating her food. The corner of Daryl’s lips curl up almost enough to be considered a smile.

Jon walks into the kitchen then. “That smells good,” he says as he sits down and Diane gets up to fix him a plate. “I’ve been goin’ over a blueprint for a place I’ve been thinking about makin’ a bid on,” he says when Diane puts his plate down in front of him.

“What place is it?” Daryl asks before gulping down more juice.

“It’s for that new McDonald’s bein’ built,” Jon replies, looks up at Daryl and frowning when he sees his face. Jon looks down at his plate as the guilt consumes him again. He looks back at Daryl and hesitates before saying, “I’m sorry fer that.” He points at his own face gesturing towards his left cheek.

“Fer what?” Daryl asks, slightly confused.

“Last night.. ya got a little… hysterical, so I slapped you.”

Daryl frowns, face reddening the slightest. “Oh… that explains it,” he mumbles, more to himself than to anyone else.

Diane walks over and places a cup of coffee in front of Jon, then looks over at Daryl. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Daryl?” He nods and she fills a cup and places it in front of him before sitting down again.

“Y’all prob’ly need to call the Sheriff and tell him about that picture you have on the game camera,” Diane says and the men nod their heads.

“Should give them that picture of the guy takin’ the picture of me in bed, too,” Daryl says darkly.

Jon smirks and snickers at him, and Daryl realizes what his statement could imply and narrows his eyes at him. “Oh, fuck off.”

**xxx**

They’re all sitting in the living room when Esther starts barking at the car that drives up and moments later they hear a knock on the door. Jon answers the door and lets Sheriff Rick and his deputy, Shane, in and Diane offers them both a cup of coffee. Shane looks around and scowls when he sees Daryl sitting there, as though he didn’t know he was going to be here.

Esther continues to bark at them as they slip past her and go to the couch adjacent to the one Daryl and Diane are sitting on. Jon fusses at Esther to calm down and she does for the most part.

Shane reaches down to pet her and she jumps back and growls at him, making Daryl busts out laughing. Jon looks at him, surprised to be hearing him laugh for the first time in ages, and smiles to himself humorously. Even Rick seems like he’s holding back a few chuckles.

Shane looks over and scowls at Daryl. “What are you laughing at, white trash!?” he exclaims and Daryl’s smile instantly vanishes, replaced by a cold stare.

“Shane! Not now,” Rick warns. Shane reluctantly shuts up, his jaw straining against spewing more insults.

While Jon wakes his laptop back up to get to the photo of the goon carrying the bag, Daryl loudly calls Esther over and pats the couch beside him. Her ears perk up and she runs over and jumps on the couch beside him with a happy smile. She lets out a content groan when she leans against him, and he wraps his arm around her and rubs her head. He looks over at Shane and sees him watching with contempt and he can’t help the shit eating grin that spreads across his face.

He’s never liked Shane. They went to school together, and even though Shane was a few grades under him it seemed like he was always there. He’s never passed up an opportunity to make fun of a Dixon if he’s given the ammunition to do so. He could easily be president of the Dixon hate club. He probably couldn’t count all the times he’s arrested Merle for things, even though he’s sure that some of those he deserved, it seemed more like Shane was just trying to find reasons to lock him up. He’s even tried that shit with Daryl a few times, but it never went through because his evidence was a load of bullshit that could never add up enough to make an actual case.

Diane walks in then with two cups of coffee. “I’m not sure if I heard right, but did I just hear Daryl Dixon laughing?” she asks with a smile.

“Yeah, Esther almost bit a chunk out a’ Shane’s ass here,” Jon says, pointing at him with his thumb. Diane giggles and sits down on the couch beside Esther, and Shane growls and crosses his arms.

“Alright let’s see what we came here for,” Shane says impatiently.

Jon clicks on the photo and makes it full screen. “Well, there it is,” he says distantly.

Everyone looks at the screen, especially Rick and Shane because they haven’t seen it yet. Rick is the one that speaks. “What the..?”

“Give ‘em that other picture,” Daryl says to Jon, who then pulls it out of his pocket and glances down at it with a frown before handing it over. Daryl doesn’t even spare a glance at it before handing it to Rick. Rick studies it, his expression serious.

“That actually happened yesterday mornin’…” Daryl says trailing off and Rick looks up at him.

“Was this with the photos in the cabin?” Rick asks and both Daryl and Jon nod. Rick frowns at the picture. “Tell me about it, did you see ‘em?” he asks Daryl.

“Well,” he sighs, “they was sneakin’ around my house… I guess they woke me up when they took that picture. I got my .45 and tried to find ‘em. When I did they threw a knife at me and got me in the shoulder. I shot them in the arm. They escaped out of Mer.… the spare bedroom window and ran inta the woods.”

“They threw a knife at ya,” Shane says skeptically. Daryl raises a defiant eyebrow and pulls the collar of his t-shirt down, peeling the bandage back and showing them his stitched up stab wound.

Shane scoffs. “It was prob’ly just one a’ your drug buddies droppin’ by ta say hi,” Shane says. Daryl glares at him. “I wonder how yer ma would feel if she knew you were a no-good, dirty redneck drug addict just like ya old man… oh wait a minute, it don’t matter… ‘cause she’s dead.”

Daryl stands up quickly as well as Shane. “Man, you don’t know shit!” he shouts, advancing towards Shane.

“She prob’ly wouldn’t ‘ave cared much anyway,” Shane mutters, crosses his arms and looking to the side as though he’s bored. “Is that why ya killed him? Couldn’t stand to be around ‘im because you was so much like ‘im?” The room suddenly feels very tense.

“Man, shut the hell up!” Daryl begins shaking.

Shane looks back at Daryl and smirks. “Yeah, well what the hell ya gonna do if I don’t?” Shane taunts as Daryl gets in his face. “Beat me up?” he says, smirking at the anger he’s creating.

“Don’t fuckin’ tempt me,” Daryl warns gruffly, knowing that it’d be a bad idea to punch a sheriff’s deputy, but he’s not going to just stand by and let this asshole bully him for his own damn amusement.

“It looks like someone already beat _you_ up.” He shifts his gaze to all the afflicted areas on Daryl’s face. “Pretty bad, huh?” Shane taunts lowly, and narrows his eyes. “I bet you had sum’m to do with that full out brawl at Chitlin’ the other night. Hell you prob’ly started it.”

Daryl reveals nothing from his face even though he feels the pounding of his heart quickening in his neck and temples. The hold on his breathing is more strained.

“No? Maybe something a little more domestic… ya brother?” Daryl doesn’t respond. “Looks like he damn near beat the shit out a’ you,” he pauses, “yeah..” Shane nods, “I always knew you were a pussy-” Shane’s interrupted by Daryl grabbing him and throwing him against the floor, making the whole house vibrate.

“I said, SHUT THE HELL UP!” Daryl roars quickly getting into position to punch Shane in the face while he lays there for the moment, caught off guard, but is stopped by a pair of strong arms that pull him backwards forcefully. All Daryl has in his mind to do is punch that stupid grin off of Shane’s face, so he keeps struggling against the hold trying to break free. “LET ME GO!” he screams to the person holding him.

“NO!” comes Jon’s voice. Then he hears Shane cackle.

“That’s right, don’t even have the guts to punch an officer in the face.” He laughs and he stands up, “Come on hit me, I dare ya!”

“That’s enough!” Rick shouts to Shane, then turns to Daryl. “And stop struggling, or I _will_ arrest you for assaulting an officer!” he warns and Daryl begrudgingly stops his fighting and violently shakes Jon’s arms off of him with a huff.

“Now Shane, I brought you here with me to help me get more information on the case, not to harass the person with information, regardless of where they come from or _who_ they are. And if you can’t act civilized and professional I’m gonna have to ask you to go wait in the car,” he says tightly. Shane stares at him with a look of shock and a hint of hurt.

“Look… Rick, he attacked me-”

“Shut up! You fuckin’ started it!” Daryl yells and Rick turns and gives him a warning look. Daryl scowls and backs off some before Rick turns back to shane.

“Just do as I say, or you’re waiting in the car! Here me?!” he stresses. “ _Here me_!?” he asks again when Shane just stares at him. He eventually nods his head, with a contemptuous look on his face, and crosses his arms. “Now everybody,” Rick says to everyone in the room realizing that everyone had stood up during the confrontation ready to act in case things got out of hand, “it’d prob’ly’d be best if everyone took their seats again so we can get back on track.”

Everyone takes their seats and Rick takes in a calming breath, “Alright… where were we?” He pauses for a moment, picking up the photo that fell to the floor and begins to study it.

“Alright,” he looks over to Daryl, “ya still got the knife?”

Daryl hesitates, trying to get his _own_ brain back on track and remember what they were even talking about, “ye-yeah, it’s still at my house.”

“Is there anything specific you can remember about the suspect?” Rick asks.

“Naw… they was a little shorter ‘an me, 5’9 maybe. Tha’s about it. It was so damn dark you can tell more from the stupid picture ‘an I could standin’ right in front of ‘em,” Daryl says.

Rick looks back down to study it again. “So now we know there’s at least two possible suspects. One of which we know broke into yer house fer... whatever reason,” he trails off, “and also seems to have their eyes on you.”

“Yeah...” Daryl mutters distantly. Both Rick and Shane stand up.

“I’d offer you help, but there’s not much I can do in the way of protection other than tell you ta watch out fer yerself. And I really mean that,” Rick says. “I can safely say I’ve never dealt with any a’ this before.”

Daryl scoffs at him. “Man, You don’ even know.”

They reach the door and Rick steps out, but Shane turns around and faces Daryl. “Nice pants by the way, they really suites ya. Too bad it does nothing to lessen yer overall shitty appearance.”

Shane looks like he’s about to say more, but Rick walks back through the door and grabs his shoulder. “Come on,” he hisses and shoots Daryl a slightly apologetic look before dragging him out of the door and to their car. They could faintly hear them arguing with each other, predominantly Rick’s scolding Shane.

“ _Asshole_ ,” Daryl growls as he tries to calm his rampantly beating heart and relax the tense muscles in his chest.

“I’ve never really cared much for that guy,” Jon says as he shuts the front door.

“Yeah?” Daryl asks with a breathless sounding chuckle.

“I was talkin’ to him one time. He had this air about him that just screamed that he thought that he was better than you, and that he could really care less about what yer sayin’.”

Daryl hums. They sit in silence for a moment and Daryl stars off into space, rubbing his lip with his thumb, thinking about the shit that fell out of Shane’s mouth.

“Hey, ya gettin’ hungry?” Jon asks, and Daryl looks over quickly, startled.

Daryl shrugs. It’s been long enough for him to know that he probably should eat something, even though he doesn’t really have an appetite. “Sure.”

Jon raises an eyebrow at him. “Alright. Well, we should all go down to the diner and get somethin’,” he proposes.

“Sounds good.”

Daryl walks back to the bedroom he’s been using and looks around at the drawers. He hears footsteps go by. He looks up to see Diane walking past. “Hey Diane,” she stops walking and pears in the doorway, “is there any clothes I can wear ‘till my clothes is clean?” She nods her head.

“There should be some cargo pants in the closet that should fit you, and any of the shirts should fit. S’yer pick,” she says before walking down the hallway.

Daryl goes to the closet and inspects his options. He picks up the dark grey cargo pants hanging and holds them out in front of him. They seem like they’ll fit, so he throws them onto the bed and looks inside for a shirt. There is a blue and yellow plaid button up shirt, a green and black plaid button up shirt, a black button up shirt, and several other shirts. Daryl stops looking at those three and grabs the green and black shirt and throws that on the bed.

He closes the bedroom door and begins stripping himself of his clothes. He peeks at his stitching when he gets his shirt off to make sure that he didn’t rip any stitching out and is relieved to see that they held tight. When he slips the pajama bottoms off he quickly gets dressed in the clean clothes.

They fit snug, more so than his own clothes, but not overly tight that it inhibits any movement from his day to day activities, so they’ll have to do.

He goes over to the bedside table and runs his belt through the rings cinching it up. He looks back over at the table and grabs Lil’ Cutie and puts her in one of his leg pockets and puts his phone in the upper front pocket. He puts Ida in the top drawer, concealing it from view, because he doesn’t feel like taking her with him. He notices that his pack or lighter isn’t anywhere to be seen, so he begins looking harder. He has the small dresser pulled away from the wall looking down in the crack when he hears a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he grunts as he continues his search.

He hears the door open and then hears an amused voice, “Ya lookin’ for these?”

Daryl turns around and sees Diane holding up his pack and lighter. He grunts and walks towards her taking them out of her grasp.

“I forgot to look in some of the pockets in yer clothes. Luckily, I always check before putting in the washer.”

Daryl shakes one out of the pack and puts it between his lips. He flicks his lighter open and gets ready to light his cigarette.

“ _Not_ in here!”

Daryl stops his hand holding the lighter halfway to the cigarette and flicks the lighter closed with a growl. “Right,” he rips the cigarette out of his lips and puts it behind his ear, “I forgot…” he mutters.

She laughs at his irritation and Daryl scowls at her. “Ya almost ready to go?”

“Gotta put mah boots on.” He turns and sits on the bed and begins slipping his boots on, but pauses, “I need socks..”

“Here,” Diane says as a pair of socks hit him in the face.

He slips the socks on then shoves his feet into his boots. He puts his cigarette pack and lighter in their rightful places and stands up. “Now I’m ready.”

“Alright let’s go.”


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The ride to the diner is quiet, seeing as no one really has anything to talk about. All Daryl can think about is where this psychopathic asshole is and if they are watching him like they apparently had been doing. Thankfully it doesn’t take long for them to get to there, and it surprisingly isn’t crowded like he expected it to be at twelve on a Saturday, just the diner’s usuals.

He’s only gone in there on a handful of times, usually favoring not eating where people can stare at him in disgust, but since he’s with his friends he can concentrate on them instead of ignoring the heated stares and occasionally glaring back at them.

They seat themselves quickly in a booth, Jon and Diane take one side and Daryl takes the other with his back to the door. Normally Daryl likes facing the door, but since he’s with Jon he lets him instead. He figures that it’s because of a protective instinct ingrained into him from fatherhood. And that suites Daryl just fine because he’s quite certain that Jon’s carrying too, and he’s got a level head on him, so if things go bad he’d be able to take care of it wisely instead of make things worse.

They just begin looking at the menus that were already placed on the table when their waitress arrives, but Daryl is too concentrated on reading the items to notice her arrival.

“What would you all like to drink?” she asks and Daryl looks up from his menu. “Oh, hey Daryl. How are you doin’?” she says cheerfully and Daryl realizes that Satin is the one waiting their table. He had completely forgotten that she said she works here. He shifts a little in his seat.

“Uh… hey.   I’m… fine.” Daryl awkwardly waves a hand at her as Jon and Diane watch the small interaction between the two with arched brows.

“We’ll have water,” Jon says gesturing towards himself and Diane, getting down to business. Satin writes it down and looks to Daryl with a raised eyebrow.

“I’ll uh.. have coke.” She smiles at him and writes it down.

“Alllright. I’ll be back in a bit to let you guys figure out what you want to order.” She turns to leave and winks at Daryl before leaving to get back to work making Daryl shift in his seat a bit.

“Well that was weird,” Diane says out of the corner of her mouth.

“Yeah, well you don’t keep seeing her,” Daryl mutters.

“Why have I never seen her before…?” Jon raises his hands up in question.

“Eh… I think she jus’ rolled inta town. She picked me up a few days ago, walkin’ on the side of the road after…” Daryl stops talking when he sees Satin walking back to their table with their drinks. He shifts uncomfortably.

Satin places the drinks down in front of their owners. “You guys ready to order yet?”

They all turn and look at one another. Daryl shrugs his shoulders figuring he’ll just get whatever he usually gets at a restaurant, if it serves it. Jon turns to Satin and nods his head. “Yeah, we are. I’ll have the cheeseburger plate.” Satin writes it down and looks at Diane.

“I’ll have the chili cheese fries,” Diane adds and Satin looks over to Daryl.

“And what we’ll you be having?” she asks him.

“Cheeseburger plate,” he mutters.

She looks back down at her notepad and writes the order down and looks back up, “Alright, shouldn’t be too long before everything’s ready,” then she smiles at Daryl again before walking back to the kitchen.

They all watch her leave and Daryl turns to see Diane looking like she has a foul taste in her mouth.

“I don’t trust her,” Diane says, breaking the silence, “She seems too perfect…. too perfect to be real.”

“I think yer just jealous,” Jon says to Diane. She scoffs.

“I’m not jealous, she just seems… fake to me. And she kept starin’ at Daryl. I mean what the hell was that about?” Diane asks raising her hands, palm up.

“I don’ know maybe they got a secret thing goin’ on.” Jon shrugs and Daryl scrunches up his face with his mouth curving downward, shaking his head, but they don’t pay him any attention.

“I don’t think so. I mean did you not see how Daryl-” Diane is interrupted by the sound of a throat clearing and they both look over, finally noticing Daryl’s rather uncomfortable disposition.

“Yeah, I’d appreciate it… if ya’d wait for me ta leave before ya start talkin’ like I ain’t here.”

They both look slightly sheepish before they sit in a slightly awkward silence sipping their drinks and looking at their phones to pass the time.

“What were ya sayin’ before that girl came by and gave us our drinks?” Jon asks, looking up at Daryl.

Daryl thinks for a few seconds before shrugging, “I don’ remember.”

“She picked you up…” Diane waves a hand.

“Oh yeah…” Daryl traces his bottom lip with his left thumb, “she picked me up after I went huntin’ and was walkin’ back to my truck on the side of the road. I let ‘er drive me back to my truck because she wouldn’t leave me the hell alone. I honestly believe she would’ve folla’d me all the way back ta my damn truck in her car.” Daryl pauses to take a sip from his coke and scratch the scruff on his chin, “I saw her again a couple a days ago at the grocery store… kept tryin’ to talk to me when all I wanted was get the shit I needed and go home.” He purposely leaves out the part where she asked him out, not feeling up to talk about that particular incident.

“Then the same day..” he briefly points at Jon, “after that bar fight, I was headed home and I almost fuckin’ ran inta her car parked in the middle of the God damn road. He shakes his head. “I get out tryin to find ‘er and she comes runnin’ out of the fuckin’ woods. She’s in there fuckin’ walkin’ around without a light. Never did tell me what she was doin’.

“Then she says her car stopped runnin’ and asks me to look at it.” Daryl alternatively shifts his gaze between Diane and Jon’s. “There wasn’t a damn thang wrong with it… So I don’t know what her fuckin’ deal is,” Daryl finishes, shrugging and waving his hands in the air.

Diane purses her lips and mutters to the air, “hmm, I still don’t like her…”

“I don’t know… seems like she likes ya pretty good,” Jon states, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, ya think?” Daryl asks slightly sarcastic and Jon makes a face at him.

“She’s a good lookin’ gal why don’t ya ask her out?” Jon asks and Diane crosses her arm and rolls her eyes, looking at the wall beside her.

Daryl shifts uncomfortably, thinking about the question he’s asked himself on a few occasions and gives the only answer that he seemed to come up with every time, “I.. I don’ know…. She makes me feel weird.” Jon raises an eyebrow in question and Daryl swallows, suddenly feeling like he’s taking some kind of test, “… she seems kind a’… off, ya know?” He looks at Jon who’s making an unreadable face, “I don’t know. Jus’.. nevermind,” Daryl dismisses quickly, hoping that they will drop the subject. Daryl quickly looks down and busies himself with wadding up his straw wrapper into a small ball.

“Naw I getcha... I do,” Jon says, and Daryl quickly looks over at him and breathes a sigh of relief knowing that he at least made a little bit of since. Jon looks over to where she would be standing if she wasn’t in the kitchen, “I see it. Jus’ wanted to hear yer reasonin’.”

“Good,” Daryl mutters and flicks the wrapper from his fingers, shooting it across the diner. “I jus’ don’t get why she’d be so inta me.”

“Daryl…” Diane begins but gets cut off by Satin bringing them their food and begins setting down their plates. Daryl watches as she begins to set his plate down in front of him when it’s about two inches from the table he hears a soft grunt and sees her arm does a convulsive type twitch before her hand releases its grip on the plate causing it to clatter loudly to the table, making him to flinch at the sudden noise. He looks up at her quickly and notices that she has a square bandage on the arm she was just using.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly, glancing quickly at Daryl with her feline eyes as she uses her other arm to set the rest of the plates in front of Jon and Diane. She sets Diane’s plate down and reaches over to grab one of the salt and pepper shakers and retracts her hand a little too widely, knocking Diane’s water over into her lap. Daryl gasps. _What the hell is this shit?_

…..

“Shit!” Diane says as she quickly stands up as much as the table would let her and brushes in vain at the water seeping into her clothes.

“Shit! I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Here… let me help you,” she says as she grabs a wad of napkins out of the holder.

Diane quickly brushes her off. “It’s fine. I got it,” she says curtly as she and Jon get up and stand beside the dripping bench. “At least it’s just water,” she mutters to herself.

“Here just-” Satin makes a grab for her shirt with the napkins in hand.

“It’s fine!” She moves away from Satin. “I’ll be in the bathroom,” she says to Jon and Daryl.

Jon watches Diane walk to the bathroom and then he turns to Satin and watches her watching Diane. Her face portrayed that she had made an honest mistake and she’s truly sorry for it, but for a split second her eyes conveyed something much different, something akin to envy. Jon narrows his eyes at her and Satin looks in his direction, her face completely slipping back into innocence, no evidence that would ever suggest that she could be putting up any kind of facade. _Daryl’s gonna have to watch out for this girl._

“I really am sorry about that. Let me go get a towel.” And then she quickly walks off to the kitchen.

He looks over to Daryl, who has an unreadable look on his face, staring off into space. He sits down beside Daryl on his bench.

“That was fun,” Jon jokes. He looks over at Daryl who’s still looking at the empty bench across from them, his shoulders slumped. Jon bumps his shoulder lightly getting his attention. “Hey, ya alright?”

Daryl lets out a grunt as his head snaps over to Jon’s; he shakes his head slightly as though to clear his head. “What?”

“Ya alright?” Jon asks again. Daryl nods his head quickly, leaning forward and aligning the French fries that fell off of his plate into a square on the table, avoiding Jon’s inquisitive stare. Jon is not at all convinced that he’s “alright”.

He’s about to say something when Satin comes back with a towel and wipes the water out off of the bench and table. She picks up the empty cup and looks up at Jon and Daryl. She reaches out for Daryl’s hand and squeezes it. “I really am sorry.”

Daryl looks at her wild-eyed, tensing up immediately. He quickly rips his hand out of her grasp, as though her touch burnt his skin, and slides it off the table onto his lap with his other hand. He avoids all eye contact and just stares at his hands in his lap.

“I’ll just get another glass of water. I’ll be back.” She walks away with the stuff leaving Jon and Daryl to sit in silence. She returns shortly with the glass and places it in Diane’s vacant seat. She glances at Daryl, who’s still looking at his lap, with a look that Jon doesn’t know the meaning of before she walks off. Daryl frowns and picks up his burger and stares at it for a moment, he takes a tentative bite and sets it back down on the plate.

“I’m not really that hungry anymore,” Daryl says leaning back with a sigh. Jon looks at him and takes a bite from his own burger.

“That’s understandable.”

Diane comes back and looks down at the now dry bench before sitting in it. She looks up at the two men sitting across from her, one chewing on his thumb nail sitting back and not eating while the other is concentrating on eating his food.

“Y’all look excited,” she remarks, making them look up at her.

“Yeah, we’re havin’ a fuckin’ party,” Daryl mutters quietly, waving his hand in the air slightly, and Diane begins to eat her food.

“Ya know the more I think about it…. the more I think that _bitch_ did it on purpose,” she states. Jon nods minutely and Daryl sighs.

“What’s wrong Daryl?” she asks softly and he looks at her then diverts his eyes to his lap. He hums out an ‘I dunno.’ He looks guilty, but she can’t think of any reason why he should be. They continue eating for a while and Diane sees Daryl takes unenthusiastic bites of his burger and continually cast glances at her.

“Sorry…”

Jon and Diane look up at the low apology.

“What the hell for?” Diane asks.

Daryl rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably, quirking his lip up uncertainly, “I feel like if I weren’t here then…” he pauses and sighs, rubbing his chin, “…it’s my fault.”

Diane stars at him for a moment processing his words. “Daryl… it’s not yer fault. Yer not responsible for what that woman does. You can’t be.”

Daryl looks at her and nods slightly, but even if he does feels a little better about what happened he still doesn’t have an appetite.

“…Maybe.”

…

It’s after supper that Daryl starts feeling antsy. Worst of all he’s feeling like he’s bothering Jon and Diane with his constant presence. He doesn’t want them to get tired of him, being around them all of the time. Plus he doesn’t want a repeat of last night. He doesn’t know if his pride can handle them seeing him like that again. Hopefully it won’t happen again.

Diane had laid out his clothes on the bed he slept on a while ago, so he switches into his own clothes and grabs all of his belongings and puts them in his pockets. He peeks out the door looking for the two and doesn’t see anyone. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to sneak out without them knowing, but he does, and he is doing it.

He makes it all the way to the front door before he hears a voice. Diane’s voice.

“Where ya goin?”

Daryl freezes facing the door, “back to mah house.”

“ _Tonight_?” Diane asks. Daryl turns around to face her.

“Yeah. Figured I’ve been here long enough. Ya’ll prob’ly tired of my ass hangin’ around fer so long, usin’ up all ya shit. Figured it’d be a good idea to head home,” Daryl reasons. Diane sighs.

“It’s not a problem, really Daryl. It’s nice havin’ someone else here besides Jon and me, ever since the kids left for college. So, please at least jus’… stay another night,” she pleads, cupping one of Daryl’s hands with both of hers. Daryl notices a sense of urgency in her eyes and he knows that she wouldn’t looks so desperate if that was really the reason she wanted him to stay.

Daryl sighs and gently pulls his hand free. “What’s the _real_ reason ya want me ta stay?” he asks in his gravelly voice.

Both of Diane’s hands fall to her side limply, swinging before raising her hands up. “Is it so hard to believe that people actually like having you around?”

Daryl doesn’t say anything. She isn’t denying that that wasn’t the real reason.

Diane’s shoulders slouch for a second and she looks down, then back up. “I’m scared, Daryl.” Daryl tenses a little when he sees her eyes get glossy with unshed tears. “Whoever this asshole is… they were in yer house, Daryl. They were right. There. _Beside._ You. Does that not freak you out? Because it sure as hell freaks me out.” Her voice begins to quaver just the slightest. “I’m scared that Jon and me are gonna wake up, expecting to be able to see you again one day and find out that yer _gone…_ or _dead_ ,” she adds and Daryl swallows, his resolve wavering, “and it’s not just me… even though Jon won’t say it, he’s just as worried.

“Apart from Jon and the kids, yer my only friend here… and I care about you. It would tear me apart havin’ somthin’ happen to you, Jon too. So please, stay at least fer tonight.” She ends placing her hand lightly on his bicep.

Daryl sighs and looks up at the ceiling. It’s not like he hasn’t thought the same things already because he _has_ , almost all the time. This whole damn situation makes him jumpy as shit. And to be perfectly honest, he’s not really looking forward to going home and being alone, he just feels like some useless asshole being a drain on resources and a burden. That’s one of the reasons he kicked Merle out of his house, he doesn’t want to turn around and do that to someone else.

He looks back at Diane and nods his head.

“Good,” Diane sighs out of relief.

…..

Diane wakes up early that morning. It’s still dark in the room so she knows it’s still really early. She’s always had problems going to sleep and actually staying asleep, mostly on account of her restless leg syndrome, and right now it was flaring up.

She gets up to get herself a glass of water, feeling like her mouth is filled with cotton. As she walks by the room Daryl’s sleeping in she peeks in, checking in on him. When her eyes adjust to the darkness in the room she sees that the bed is empty. She walks in the room to the other side of the bed not visible from the door, to make sure that he didn’t fall out of the bed or something.

The room is empty. She begins to worry that maybe he decided to bail while everyone one is asleep. He’s not exactly the most predictable person she’s ever met and he continues to constantly surprise her. She leaves the room in a hurry looking around her as she goes. She walks the kitchen discovering that it’s empty. She walks to the living room next and stops in the doorway, sighing with relief.

There sitting on the couch is Daryl hunched forward with his face in his hands. He quickly glances up at the doorway when he hears her sigh, looking startled before he shoves his face back in his hands, huffing out air.

Concern spreads through her when she sees him there, slightly shaking. Her mind goes back to the previous night. _Could he have had another nightmare?_

She approaches him cautiously and gently sits down on the couch beside him, making sure to leave him enough space to not make him feel claustrophobic.

She looks at him, but he just keeps his face in his hands.

“Daryl,” she says softly, “ya alright?” She leans towards him just a fraction of an inch, waiting for some kind of response.

He doesn’t verbally respond, but after a few seconds pass she sees just the subtlest movement of his head shaking in his hands. If she wouldn’t have been watching she would have missed it. She starts to feel unsure about how to approach him about what’s bothering him. So she asks the most obvious of questions.

“Ya wanna talk about it?” she asks softly.

She sees his shoulders stiffen just the slightest and she begins to think that he was going to pretend that he didn’t hear her after the silence stretches on to minutes. She’s surprised when he vigorously rubs his face with his hands with a frustrated growl and drops his hands from his face and breathes out a reply.

“No.”

He doesn’t say anything else and Diane’s mind reels. She’s stumped on what she could say to help distract him from whatever demons that are inside his head. She can’t even imagine the kind of things that could be going across his mind. If it has anything to do with his childhood, which she has a feeling that it probably does, she still wouldn’t know what to say. But she knows one thing and its how much she hates the man who caused it and put the haunted and self hatred look in his eyes. And she’s most certain that it was his dad that did most of the damage, mentally and physically. He’s never outright said it, but she able to figure it up mainly from just putting two and two together. And it makes her irate that someone would do such a thing to their child, their own flesh and blood. She won’t ever know why anyone would ever want to.

She looks back at Daryl and sees his fingers fidgeting with his pack of cigarettes and realizes what he wants to do.

“You can go out on the porch and smoke, if you want…”

Daryl looks over at the closed door with a tight frown, “…yeah, I kinda figured.”

He looks like he’s have a mental battle about something, of what she isn’t sure. But whatever it is, his need for nicotine wins out.

He gets up from the couch and goes out the door with his pack, leaving the wooden door open behind him and letting the screen door fall closed, so she’s still able to see him. He glances around the yard before he walks over to the top step and sits down, leaving only his head visible through the screen door.

He looks uncomfortably tense sitting out there and she doesn’t know if it’s because he might be cold or because of a sudden jumpiness he seems to have developed.   She comes to a quick decision and gets up deciding to join him, whether her company would be welcome or not.

Daryl looks back at her when she opens the screen door and blows out the smoke from his mouth. She walks over to the step he’s sitting on and sits down beside him.

“Don’t care if I give ya company do ya?” she asks.

Daryl looks back out across the yard off into the woods and shrugs his shoulders. “Not my house.”

Diane huffs a laugh and looks up at the sky. It’s a clear night out and she can see the stars clearly. She gets mesmerized by how tiny it makes her feel when she looks at them. Her mind wanders to different things, most of them about things that have recently happened.

She starts thinking about how much of an asshole Shane was to Daryl and remembers what he said about Daryl’s dad. And despite her knowing it’s not really any of her business it spikes her curiosity. Daryl doesn’t talk about his dad much. He doesn’t talk about either of his parents really. Whenever the subject was ever brought up, by either her or Jon, he’s only ever given them short and simple answers, nothing containing too much detail, or hardly any at all. She’s known that his dad died, but she’s never known how exactly. He’s never said and she’s never felt the need to ask. That particular detail didn’t ever seem all that relevant… at least not until now. She doesn’t think Shane’s words are that credible because she’s pretty sure he was just trying to get under his skin. He seems like the kind of person to twist things around into meaning something else entirely. The only thing she can do is ask Daryl herself. Asking someone else would just feel wrong and make her feel like she’s betraying his trust.

“What did Shane mean when he said you killed yer dad?” she blurts out without much thought about how Daryl will react and cringes when Daryl tenses even further.

He flicks ashes off of his cigarette angrily. “I _didn’t_. Shane’s just bein’ an asshole,” he spits out.

Diane feels like slapping herself in the face. She knows Daryl is a private person, and if that’s not something he wants to talk about just blurting out her question with no thought into how she words it isn’t the best way to go about it. But then again, he hasn’t told her to fuck off yet, so she cautiously keeps going. “Why… would he say that?”

“We ain’t never exactly seen eye to eye,” he grumbles. “I wouldn’t doubt he really does believe I killed him, considering his “high” opinion a’ me. But I _didn’t_.” He looks down at the hand holding his cigarette resting on his knee. “Not on purpose.”

Diane’s eyes widen just a fraction. “What happened?”

She sees him look over at her scrutinizing her face with his sharp gaze and she concentrates hard on not to squirming under the intense stare.

“Ya don’t think any less a’ me?” he asks, almost sounding shocked. Diane scoffs.

“Why should I? I would have killed him too, even knowin’ what little bit he’s done,” she empathizes and sees Daryl grimace and his frown deepen and decides maybe she should stop talking.

“It wasn’ like that…” Daryl mutters and goes to take a puff of his cigarette only to find it had burned down to the filter. He growls and throws it in the dirt and takes out another one.

“You can tell me, Daryl. I’m not gonna think any less of ya.” She gives him a reassuring smile and sees his Adam’s apple bob in the yellow porch light. He’s staring off into the woods again, but he has a somber look to his eyes that she wish she could erase.

“Might as well tell ya the whole damn story...” He takes a puff of his cigarette and blows the smoke out of his nose. “I was nineteen or so. I was still livin’ under my daddy’s wing. Anyway, I get this call from the bar owner tellin’ me to come pick my old man up before he called the cops on him. And like the dedicated son I was, I drive my truck down to the bar ta get ‘im. And of course when I get there, it’s past closing time and he’s piss ass drunk. I could barely drag his ass to the truck while the whole time he’s talkin’ shit. Shit I’m not willin’ ta repeat.” He pauses to puff on his cigarette to keep it from going out. “An’ the shit didn’t stop fallin’ out his mouth neither.

“We was about halfway home when he starts declarin’ that I drive like a pussy and his stupid ass grabs the steerin’ wheel and yanks it towards ‘im. I try and yank the truck’s wheels back straight, but it was too late. The next thing I know is I the truck’s barreling off the side of the road and suddenly up is down… and down is up. Then I can feel my face crashing through the windshield and I’m flying through the air. I catch a glimpse of my dad flying out beside me and then the truck rollin’ down. I don’t know how long I laid there, but when I opened my eyes again, I couldn’t see out my left. But I used my right to look for my dad…” Daryl stops talking, his slightly trembling hands suddenly going to his face, “when the truck rolled over beside me…. it rolled right on top of ‘im.” He pauses again. “You couldn’t really recognize him. His face was flattened to a pancake…..” his voice shakes unsteadily.

“I threw up then. I don’t know if it was from the fact that half of my face was smashed in or because of the fact that I could see his guts busted out all around…” Daryl looks away quickly unable to keep his composure if he keeps talking. Diane rubs his shaking shoulder, but stops when he leans away slightly.

“It wasn’t your fault, Daryl,” she says softly. Daryl looks at her with glistening eyes that tells her that he doesn’t fully believe her, and then averts his eyes and blankly stares at his right hand holding the cigarette as his left finds his mouth.

“I went to the hospital… and he went to the morgue,” he says quietly, and then laughs bitterly. “Ya know? Ya’d think I’d be glad that bastard was dead…” he shakes his head with a twisted frown, “but I’m _not_.” He sniffs and his face contorts suddenly before relaxing and then contorting again, “I guess I jus’… Even though he was a bastard I jus’…. I thought maybe… eventually…” He sniffs loudly and quickly wipes his eyes before he looks at her.

“I don’t know why I’m tellin’ you this shit…” he says, looking very dejected and frustrated at the same time.

“No. It’s okay. Maybe you tellin’ me will make you feel better because you need to tell _someone_.”

He looks down. “I feel like such a pussy.” He huffs out a laugh and then goes quiet. She looks over and sees several emotions flash across his face.

“You can tell me, I’m not gonna make fun of ya. Who am I gonna tell? Jon?”

Daryl frowns at her and mutters, “Ya got a point…”

He looks up at the moon and heaves a sigh, “I guess I thought he would….” He growls, from irritation or disgust she can’t really tell. She almost misses what he says next because he mumbles it so quietly. “Maybe he would… love me.”

Diane feels her chest get tight. _Love?_ Diane suddenly feels like crying. He’s never known how it is to have a parent love him. He’s never had the fortune of having _anyone_ love him. Diane’s been fortunate to have both loving parents and have several goods friends throughout her life. And here Daryl is having never known what it’s like to have any of that. It’s not too surprising he was as jaded as he was when they first met. It makes her feel like such an asshole in comparison. But she knows he’s not looking for pity, she’s learned that plenty over the years, so she puts on her best poker face and gives the most sincere of responses from her heart and not out of sympathy.

“If it makes you feel any better, Daryl…” She waits for him to look at her; his face is set firmly in a frown. “ _I_ love you.” She places a hand over her heart.

Daryl’s eyes widen and it looks like he might even be holding his breath. She quickly adds more so he doesn’t get any wrong ideas.

“Yer one of the best friends I’ve ever had and I’m glad I’m friends with you. I couldn’t imagine not having you as one. I wouldn’t want to. Yer a good man, Daryl. Don’t _ever_ let anyone tell you different.” She smiles and sees the harsh lines in his face relax just the slightest, even though the air still remains slightly awkward around them. But she takes it as a good sign that he hasn’t run for the hills yet.

They stay quiet for a long time she listens to the sound of the forest. She can hear the coyotes off in the distance and ignores the slight chill that the sound causes to run down her spine. She can tell that Daryl’s mulling something over in his head, but she doesn’t bother him. She’d give him his peace.

Suddenly she feels a rough hand gently squeeze her shoulder. She looks over and sees the openly touched expression on his face

“You too,” he rasps shyly. Diane smiles widely and can’t control herself from the side hug that she gives him. It doesn’t last long, only for a couple of seconds. He doesn’t hug back, but he also doesn’t tense up. But for him that’s almost just as good and she’s content with it.

They sit in silence and Daryl smokes up most of his pack; Diane thinks over the things he says, adding all the small pieces to the jigsaw puzzle of what she already knows about him, and remembers something that raises another question.

“Can you see out of yer left eye?”

Daryl looks at her quickly, caught off guard for a second.

“Wha’… oh.” He touches his left eye socket. “mmm… s’not as good as before. I see little speckles sometimes, but yeah… I can see through it.” Diane nods at him.

“Tha’s why I got a metal eyesocket. I smashed my own in…” Daryl looks up at the sky and scratches his arm.

They’re interrupted by the sound of a gunshot echoing across the woods. Daryl stiffens and sits up straighter. She looks at him and sees the different emotions flit across his face.

“That was probably just Jack. Asshole likes to start hunting before it gets light….” She watches as Daryl mauls it over, but he doesn’t look entirely convinced.

“Maybe…” he says distractedly, staring off into the woods. “What time is it?”

Diane looks up as well, “I don’t know. Maybe we should get back inside.”

Daryl finishes his cigarette, “prob’ly,” and then he stands up.

“You leavin’ in the mornin’ er… later?” she asks.

“Yeah… got to eventually.”


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Daryl is anxious to get home. He hasn’t been home in a couple of days and the stalker psychopath is still running around. No telling if his house is even standing anymore considering it was him and Jon that ruined their secret “hideout”. What if somehow they knew it was _him_ that found the place. He doesn’t reckon that would be a very good situation.

He barely pays attention to the background as he drives by in his truck. And his mind is so thick with though that he pays no mind to any of the music playing to the radio.

“Fuckin’ _SHIT_!”

His blood begins to boil when he sees Tommy’s Jeep parked beside his house when he pulls into the driveway. If that asshole is in his house right now he feels that he has every right to shoot that fucker in his ass.

He gets out of his truck, quickly slamming the door. It takes everything ounce of his control, which he’s slowly losing, to keep himself from angrily sprinting to the door. He opens the front door finding it not so surprisingly unlocked.

When he steps inside he becomes absolutely livid. He can actually feel the blood vessels in his head constricting, bringing on massive headache. His whole house looks like a fuckin’ tornado hit it. The contents to any cabinet and drawer were dumped on the floor along with the drawers themselves. The fridge… well… that had the same treatment, contents, everything, just dumped on the floor.

He quickly moves his glare to the living room and sees the stuffing out of everything possible ripped out, including his chair, completely ruined. That’s not even half of the damage.

He feels a pain on his scalp and realizes that he’s pulling his hair out of frustration, but he doesn’t let up. A pressure within his chest builds and he realizes it’s from the extreme effort of him trying to keep from screaming, and he’s losing badly because the scream escapes his throat and it almost scares _him_.

“aaAAAAAAAA **AAAHHHH!!!!!!!!** TOM _MYYY_!!!!” Daryl pauses, heavily puffing out air as he begins hastily stomping towards the hallway, “Imma fuckin’ _kill_ yo ass!!!!!!”

He hears a crash come from his room and he stops his current path and turns to quickly march to his room. He throws the door open, quickly holding up his forearm to stop the recoil of it bouncing back. He realizes he’s growling as he sees the two figures, but does nothing to stop it because who he sees, in the mess they’ve created, only makes him more irate.

“ _MERLE_?!!! What the _FUCK_ do you think ya doin’?!!!!” Daryl approaches him quickly, vaguely aware of a frightened looking Tommy standing over in the corner of the room by his bed.

“Where is it?” Merle asks angrily when Daryl stands in his face.

“Where is _what_?” he growls out.

“You know what I’m fuckin’ talkin about! The _powder_! The _coke_! Where’da fuckin’ hide it, _baby brother_!!?” He grits through his face.

And Daryl begins laughing, not a normal sounding laugh, but the laugh of someone who’s lost one too many marbles. He can feel the tears beginning to fall from the outer corners of his eyes. Merle leans back a little uncertain of his brother’s behavior.

Daryl stops laughing and scowls at Merle with a disturbingly cold expression, “You don’t fuckin’ know me _at all_ do you? I didn’t fuckin’ hide it… I fuckin got _rid_ of it!”

Merle’s nostril’s flare, “you WHAT!?”

“You heard me, Merle!!!” Daryl quips quickly.

“D’you know how much fuckin’ money that shit was!!!?”

“Of Course I do! It was _MY_ FUCKIN’ MONEY!” He glances around his room quickly waving a furious hand. “Do you know how much fuckin’ money it’s gonna be to replace all the shit YOU FUCKIN’ DESTROYED!!!???” he screams with his shaking palms facing up, fingers curled tensely towards his palm.

Merle lunges for Daryl, but Daryl slides out of the way and pushes Merle’s back making him hit the wall, cracking it. “Yer fuckin’ lucky I don’t sue ya ass!”

“Boy! Ya must’ve gone soft in the head. Ya forget who you’s talkin’ to!” Merle quickly advances and grabs Daryl’s arm firmly, but Daryl doesn’t feel it because he’s completely overcome with his anger.

“You can’t just attack ole Merle and expect ya to just get away wit’ it scot free.” As Merle says it Daryl just reacts without thinking and slaps Merle in the side of the head. The unprepared Merle goes crashing to the ground yanking Daryl to the floor with him from his furiously tight grip. Daryl lands on his side beside Merle and quickly regains his baring, faster than Merle at least.

He whacks his fist into Merle’s stomach making him loosen his grip enough for Daryl to rip his arm from away and repeatedly punches Merle in the face. Daryl’s to the point that he doesn’t care if he breaks every single fuckin’ knuckle in his fist, all he can see is every time is Merle’s fucking him over and over time again. He can feel Merle’s nose crunch under his knuckles, and sputters out a strangled laugh. He doesn’t stop. Why should he? Merle never seems to stop and think about Daryl. He thinks he even feels the corners of his mouth curl up into an evil smile at the satisfying amount of blood on his face.

Merle eventually whacks the side of his fist into Daryl’s head making him roll over into the floor, but Daryl quickly gets to his feet before Merle can get a good grip to keep him on the floor. Unfortunately, he _does_ have a good grip on Daryl’s shirt and when he stands up the shirt tears at the seams and rips right off of him, leaving Daryl standing there completely shirtless, heaving with both anger and exertion.

Daryl sees Merle’s face pale, underneath the blood pouring spatters, and his eyes widen. Daryl looks down and realizes with horror what had just happen. He mutters several curse words as he looks around his trashed bedroom and locates a pile of shirts lying by the drawer that use to hold them. He quickly strides over to them.

“I-I didn’t know,” Merle pleas and Daryl bitterly scoffs as he hastily throws on grey t-shirt.

“Yeah.. you did.” Daryl turns to glare at him, still completely furious, “He did it to you too, so don’t give me that shit!!” He throws an angry arm in the air.

“Yeah?! Well, I _had to_ leave. I woulda killed ‘em otherwise!”

Daryl huffs a short laugh.

“Well _whoopty fuckin’ do_!! That worked out perfectly for me, _right_?!” Daryl screams into the room. “Leave and go have fuckin’ parties, then get fuckin’ kicked out of the military ‘cause of it, but still don’t show up until years after he’s dead!?! And you say you care.” Daryl doesn’t even try to control his trembling, he wouldn’t be able to anyway.

Merle stays quiet for a few grueling seconds before he blurts out, “At least _I_ didn’t kill him.”

The pressure inside Daryl’s chest wells up again and it feels like his body almost isn’t capable of containing _this_ much rage. He growls low in his chest and draws Ida from the holster tucked into his waistband, and points it at Merle, gun slightly shaking in his hand from anger. He shakily and quietly speaks, “Get out a’ my house, Merle.”

Merle just stares at him, his jaw set, but Daryl keeps his pistol steady.

“I said GET OUT!! I don’t want you here no more!!” Daryl yells, his voice straining.

Merle’s face changes to a look of sadness and defeat before he reluctantly steps outside the room into the hallway.

Daryl points his pistol at Tommy and almost laughs at the man’s completely freaked out expression, but he doesn’t.   He sneers at Tommy, standing in the corner of the room like a coward.

“You too, cock sucker.” Tommy’s eyes widen just a fraction before he scurries out of the room to catch up with Merle.

Daryl follows them as they walk to the door, gun still trained on their backs as they reach the door quickly. Merle turns around and opens his mouth to say something, but Daryl cuts him off.

“NO! You had ja fuckin’ chance.” Merle frowns. Daryl opens the door and gestures for them to leave with his gun.

After they walk through the door Daryl speaks again, “This is the last time Merle. Ya do sum’m like this again, I’m callin’ the cops! _Get your shit together_!” And then he slams the door.

Daryl turns around and faces the waste land that his house has been turned into and feels his headache come on stronger and begins to feel a weird tingling in his face. He groans pressing his free hand into his temple; he barely notices the sound of Tommy’s jeep drive away.

Alarm begins to swirl in his gut when he suddenly loses the feeling in his right arm and involuntarily drops his gun on the floor. It feels like the floor begins dipping down in unnatural angles and he stumbles, trying to regain his balance. He limps over to the closest source of furniture, his ruined couch, and collapses onto it, moaning. He lays there and tries to collect himself.

_This shit ain’t right..._

Out of reflex he goes to raise his right hand to rub his face and realizes with a start that he can’t move it; his arm is completely numb. He hears a strangled whimper and after a moment realizes with complete humiliation that it was him. He lies there trying to figure out what he should do. He fumbles awkwardly into his right pocket with his left hand, grunting in the process, and pulls out his phone. He silently thanks who ever designed the pants he’s wearing that they decided to make the pockets not as deep as in his other pants.

He stares at the phone loosely grasped in his hand and begins dialing Jon’s number. He knows that Jon’s at home right now and his house is closer to Daryl’s than the hospital, so he’s pretty sure Jon could get him to the ER faster than it would even take an ambulance to arrive at his house.

He anxiously listens to the dull ringing as he waits for him to pick up.

….

Jon’s sitting in his chair watching the football game on TV when his phone rings. He looks at the caller ID wondering who’s trying to reach him. He feels a wave of apprehension hit him when he sees Daryl’s name on the screen. Daryl’s not usually one for calling to chat; it’s always something of some sort of significance. He quickly taps the answer button and puts the phone to his ear

“Hello?”

The line is silent for a couple of seconds before he hears Daryl’s voice. “I nee’ hellp…”

His voice doesn’t sound right to him, and the fact that _Daryl_ is asking for help is enough to call for concern, “What do you need help with?” he asks quickly.

“I’m...” He hears him inhale, “‘av’n a perob’m… I thin’… I nee’ a ride ta th’ER.”

Jon’s eyes widen. He had to struggle to really understand what he was saying and thinks back over what his words sounded most like, but feels like he got the important parts, “Alright, I’ll be there in a minute. Just hang on.”

“Ahrigh’.” And then Daryl hangs up. Jon gets up quickly to hurry out the door and grabs his truck keys.

“Where ya goin’?” Diane asks from the doorway wearing her sleeping clothes. Jon huffs with impatience.

“Daryl asked me to take him to the ER,” he explains quickly and her eyes widen as she gasps. “I have to go; I don’t have time to wait for you to get dressed.” And then he walks out the door to get in his truck, not even giving Diane anytime to respond.

He ignores the speed limit and drives quickly down the road to Daryl’s house. He arrives shortly and gets out of his truck barely staying long enough to close his truck door. He doesn’t bother knocking. The way Daryl sounded on the phone made him feel like he probably isn’t in a state to be up and walking around.

He steps inside and is completely caught off guard by the disaster he’s greeted with, “Well… shit.”

He glances down at black object on the floor and notices Daryl’s gun lying about foot from his feet. Before he has time to come to any rash conclusions to why it’s lying there movement on the destroyed couch catches his attention, and he sees Daryl awkwardly looking at him over his left shoulder.

“What the hell happened?!” He hurries over to Daryl’s form on the couch, who tries to sits himself up, only to have his arm buckle underneath him and fall back on the couch. Jon’s stretches out a hand to him which Daryl begrudgingly accepts with his left, and Jon pulls him up into a sitting position. Jon doesn’t comment about Daryl’s bleeding knuckles and discretely wipes the blood that smeared on his hand on his pant leg.

He notices that Daryl right arm is just limply hanging there. He grabs Daryl’s right hand and pulls it out in front of him. Daryl watches him with a worried scowl.

“Can you feel this?” He squeezes his hand and Daryl shakes his head with a frown. Jon lets go and Daryl’s arm flops back down beside him.

“How long ya been like this, Daryl?”

Daryl looks up at him and something about his face doesn’t look quite right to him.

“te…t’n minehs,” Daryl growls low in his throat and looks down quickly, his face reddening.

Jon sighs and turns away, running a hand through his short hair, realizing what this probably is. He turns back to Daryl abruptly.

“Look at me.” Daryl looks up at him with a miserable expression on his face, “can you smile?” Daryl looks at him strangely for a second before his left eye widens with realization of why he’s asking. Jon watches as Daryl smiles and sees only the left side respond, the other side remains unmoved.

“Alright, time to go.” He helps Daryl onto his feet and he tightens his grip around his ribs as Daryl’s right leg nearly gives out underneath him. They make their way as fast as possible, which is still painfully slow, to Jon’s truck with a heavily limping Daryl.

On the drive to the ER Jon asks the question again that he never got an answer to, that’s been the loudest in his head. “What the hell happened back there?”

He hears Daryl groan and hears his head lean against the window, with a dull thump, and then he answers with the best of his ability. “’S’Merle…. Loo’in’ fa drugs ‘at ain’ ‘ere.”

Jon doesn’t say anything in response other than a small grunt.

The cab stays quiet for a minute or two, but the silence is broken when he hears Daryl’s loud, raspy laugh feel the cab. It sounds strained. Finding it to be a little unnerving he asks, “What?”

Daryl goes quiet and looks away, hiding his face from view. “Nu’in.”

_What the hell happened before I got that call?_

Jon glances at Daryl then back at the road and presses his foot down harder on the accelerator. Daryl’s behavior is actually kind of freaking him out a little.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Jon is just pulling into the hospital parking lot when Daryl voice breaks the silence, "I thin' I'm gettin' over it."

Jon looks at Daryl, who's looking down at his bad arm, watching as he sluggishly move the fingers of his right hand back and forth.

"Maybe we don' need ta go in 'ere afta all." Daryl suggests.

Jon looks over at him again and sees him looking back. "Oh no. Yer still goin in."

Daryl scowls and slightly shakes his head and mutters. "Naw, man. It's gettin' betta."

Jon pulls up in the emergency and parks the truck letting it idle. He looks over seeing a hunched over Daryl with his eyes cast downward, gnawing the skin of his left thumb. Daryl's eyes shift to Jon's.

"Ya asked me ta do this, Daryl." Jon reminds him and Daryl sighs.

"Well… I'm regrettin' it now."

At least Daryl's voice sounds clearer than before even though it's still slurred, it's just not as gargled.

"Can you walk?" Without responding Daryl reaches over with his left hand and pushes his door open.

Jon gets out and walks around and gets to the other side in time to see Daryl slip and catch himself on the truck door, barely managing to keep his ass from hitting the ground. Jon steps forward to pull him up using his bad arm, while Daryl grumbles irritably about being able to do it himself. Jon shuts the door and they head for the entrance, with Jon holding Daryl's bad arm over his shoulder.

When they're about ten feet from the doors Daryl freezes in his tracks. Jon doesn't notice at first so he keeps walking forward causing Daryl to make an awkward hopping movement, pushing himself against Jon's momentum.

"What? Why'd ya stop?" Jon asks, turning to look at him. Daryl's face is tight and his body is tense as he stares at the double doors. "Ya scared of hospitals?" Jon infers.

"Not scared... Jus' uncomf'table, reminds me a' not so good times and… other stuff." Daryl trails off.

"Well ya got to go in there. You don't know if what happened to you is over or not. Hell, it could happen _again_."

Daryl scowls and looks down shaking his head. He growls under his breath before he nods his head in resignation.

"Come on then."

Jon walks forward with Daryl limping beside him, leaning lightly against him as they go through the doors. Jon can feel the stares of the people sitting in the waiting chairs. He figures that they must be a strange sight. Jon glares at a couple of people he sees sneering in their direction. Daryl doesn't need any more reasons to feel uncomfortable.

They reach the front desk and the receptionist turns to them waiting for them to say something with raised brows.

Jon looks over at Daryl and sees the face he's making. He doesn't look like he's about to say anything anytime soon, so he decides that he'll do the honors, "He just had a stroke." He feels Daryl tense at the words and sees him look down out of the corner of his eye. "But the symptoms seem to be going away."

"Hold on let me call a nurse…" The receptionist walks away from them to talk to someone on the phone.

"Ya alright, Daryl?" Jon asks and Daryl and he shrugs a shoulder.

"As alright as I can be, I guess" Daryl mumbles quietly.

A petite woman, presumably the nurse, walks up to the two pushing a wheelchair. "All right Mr. Dixon, let's get you seated and then I can get you to your doctor."

Jon sees Daryl tense even further and look down at the chair with so much loathing he almost believes the chair might actually burst into flames.

"I'm not sittin' n' that," Daryl says curtly, shaking his head while pointing a finger.

The nurse frowns for a second. "It's regulation for you to sit in the wheelchair before I take you to see the doctor." Jon doesn't know if that's necessarily true, but he agrees with what she's doing. He needs to be in the chair. The last thing he needs to do is try to walk and fall and hurt himself, even though he's pretty sure Daryl could handle it, physically at least. He's not so sure about mentally.

Daryl starts pulling himself backwards, away from the offending object.

"Nope. No way. I ain't sittin' in no fuckin' wheelchair." He rips Jon's hand that was gripping onto his ribs for support and begins limping backwards away from Jon, but Jon's still holding onto Daryl's right hand draped over his shoulder. Daryl's strength is coming, but he's still weak and his attempts of outmuscling Jon are futile.

He limps back until he's pulled to a stop by Jon's grip, but Daryl continues struggling until he almost falls over where he stumbles while trying to regain his footing.

Daryl stops and looks at Jon, and for a split second his eyes hold a look of hurt and betrayal, but only for a moment, it's quickly replaced with an angry scowl, "Don't make me sit n' the chair."

Jon pulls him closer to the chair. "Ya have to. Now sit yer ass down in that chair."

Daryl weakly struggles repeating "no" as Jon man handles him into sitting in the wheelchair. When Daryl's finally seated in the chair he looks up at Jon with a scowl. He looks angry, making Jon feel a little bad, but it's for the best. He'll just have to get over it.

"I'll still be here when yer done. Alright?" Jon says to Daryl, but he just glares at him in response. Then the nurse pushes him down into the depths of the building.

Jon heaves a tired sigh and goes back outside to park his truck in an actual parking spot.

Daryl's anger quickly dissolves into anxiety as he's wheeled back to his designated room. When he enters the room he gets out of the wheelchair and sits himself down on the bed. He refuses any of the nurse's help, despite her persistent comments about how she should help him. After about five seconds of sitting on the bed an older man with grey hair and set face, but kind eyes walks into the room.

"I'm Dr. Hershel Greene; I will be your doctor." He stops in mid-step for a split second when he looks up at Daryl's face, and then continues his stride. He can tell that short look in his eyes was the recognition setting in, but for his credit, his face reflected no change of expression, especially anything resembling contempt, which helped Daryl feel a little less uneasy, but only a little.

While his doctor is looking down at some papers in his hand, a nurse, different from the lady before, picks up his left arm with more force than necessary and raps the blood pressure cuff around his bicep. He didn't even notice when she came into the room. He doesn't know how he missed it; this lady is built like a linebacker. Hell, he'd bet that she is taller than him too. He looks at her nametag and sees her name is Bernadine. _Suiting_.

She begins pumping the air into the cuff and he concentrates on relaxing himself, so the reading won't be off, but he's about decided this lady's damn near determined to make his arm blow up. And she's still pumping in the air. Daryl grits his teeth. His arm begins screaming from the intense pressure while the rest of his arm begins to feel really cold. It gets to a point where he accidentally lets a short grunt escape from the back of his throat.

Daryl growls under his breath. "Ya tryin' ta blow my veins out!?" He grits through his teeth.

She just stops her pumping and frowns at him for a couple of seconds; she looks back down at her work and pumps it up a couple more agonizing times before she lets the air out.

The relief is almost immediate. The squeezing feeling lingers for a few seconds, but Daryl is still relieved. He looks at his arm as she removes the cuff and sees a long, blotchy pink line of what looks to be consisting of a bunch of busted capillaries stretching down his bicep where the cuff pinched the shit out of his arm. He knows it's going to bruise; it pretty much is one already. _What the hell did I ever do to her?_

Now he watches as she writes down the numbers and then picks up a syringe that he knows is meant to draw his blood.

He looks down at the vein he knows is about to be stabbed and sees her get in position and watch as the needle clearly miss the vein and forcefully jabs into his arm.

" _Fuck!_ " He glares at her and she looks back at him with eyes holding no remorse. She looks back down at the crook of his arm and pulls the needle out with a quick jerk and stabs it back in, still completely missing his vein.

"Fuck, Lady! Mah fuckin' vein's _righ'_ _there_! How can ya fuckin' miss it! Hell, I could prob'ly do a better job if I's blindfolded!" he gripes at her, but the nurse just gives him this look.

"You keep moving your arm…" she defends.

Daryl gapes at her. _Is this lady fuckin' serious?_

"Bullshit! I held my arm still. I sat an' watched ya ass miss mah vein. I don't know whatcha fuckin' prob'm is." He shakes his head.

She grabs his arm with excessive force that it actually makes him hiss through his teeth a little from the pressure, and then she stabs his vein and successfully stabs all the way through it.

"What the hell! – _Fuck_!" He weakly grabs her hand with his right and pulls the needle out of his skin, with less vigor than he would have liked and rubs his hand furiously over the abused area.

"Bernadine, why don't I do this and you take it down to the lab," Dr. Hershel finally cuts in, making it sound like a request even though Daryl's pretty sure that it isn't.

He takes the needle from her and smoothly draws the blood from Daryl's vein and hands the sample over to the large lady.

"Take that down to the lab for me and get a test on it."

She takes it and leaves the room.

"Have a nice day, _Berni,_ " Daryl mocks as she leaves the room. Her stride only slows for a split second before her pace picks back up again and she leaves the room.

Hershel looks up from the small bandage that he just wrapped around his arm over the tiny holes in his arm.

"Sorry about her," he says quietly. "She's new here."

Daryl just grunts.

Hershel picks up a clipboard with his chart on it and reads it. "Your blood pressure is a little high here. 165/90." He stares at the numbers for a moment longer. "I'm going to go ahead and take it again..."

Hershel puts the cuff on him and pumps the air in to the proper amount of pressure and lets the air out.

"Well, it looks fine now. 130/70," Hershel says as he adds it to the chart.

"Maybe it's 'cause Bernie there was tryin' to blow my arm up. I don' know what I ever did to piss her off, but she seems to have it out fer me."

Hershel hums. "I don't know… Since she's started working here I've learned that she seems to be stern with her patients, but sometimes excessively so. I'm not sure what to think of her."

Hershel gets into a more comfortable position.

"So, when did you first notice your symptoms?"

Daryl thinks about it for a moment. "'bout maybe 50 minutes ago."

"What were your symptoms?"

Daryl hesitates for a moment before answering, "I got a really bad headache then my right arm went numb, and then the room started spinnin'… I couldn't talk right." Daryl touches the right side of his face, "Jon said the right side of my face was droopy…"

"Jon?" Hershel raises an eyebrow.

"My friend, he brought me here," he offers in way of explanation.

"Has anything like this ever happened to you before?"

"Not that I've been aware of."

"Do you have any health problems that would contribute to this?"

"No."

"Any family health problems?"

Daryl stops for a moment and then shakes his head. "Not that I know of."

"Do you smoke?"

"Yeah."

Hershel nods again and then looks hard at Daryl's face. Daryl reminds himself that he's probably just going over doctor stuff in his head and that the scrutinizing look on his face isn't one of judging.

"How did you get the bruises on your face?"

Daryl blows out a huff of air, "Long story short, I got clobbered in the head a few different times the past few days."

"I see you have a broken nose, did you reset it yourself?" he asks.

"Yeah, did a pretty good job, I think."

"Do you have any difficulty breathing through your nose?"

"No, I don't think the break messed any with my septum."

"Then I say you did an alright job. Do you have bruises anywhere else besides what's visible?"

Daryl scoffs. "The question should be 'Is there anywhere I _don't_ have bruises?'" he jokes lowly, but Hershel doesn't smile. His face remains serious.

"When did you get them, how?"

Daryl sighs and rubs the back of his neck, "let's see… uh.. got into a little scrap a couple of days ago, then again that night. I fell through a floor the day after…. An' then got into another scrap earlier today."

_Wow. I sound like a fuckin' disaster?_

"By earlier today you mean before your symptoms?"

Daryl pauses and thinks about it, "…yeah."

Hershel doesn't say anymore on the subject but grabs Daryl's hands and examines the knuckles no doubt putting together the vague details that Daryl was willing to offer into a story. To his surprise, though he doesn't say anything and begins cleaning them up and freeing them of the dried blood. He forces his face to stay blank as the pressure sends a sharp pain up his arm.

"Make a fist for me, both hands." Daryl makes his hands into a fists and Hershel watches and looks at the swelling in his knuckles of his right.

"You did this earlier today?" Hershel asks with an almost knowing look that makes Daryl feel defensive.

He grunts out a "yeah" to Hershel. He informs him that he believes that Daryl may have possibly sprained the top knuckle in his right hand for his little finger. This surprises Daryl. He would have thought that with the force he used against Merle's face that he would have had a lot worse.

"I can't tell for certain without an X-ray."

"Don't need one," Daryl says quickly and Hershel raises an eyebrow.

"It's possible that I could be wrong and that it's a break."

Daryl waves his hand. "S'fine, wouldn't be the first time."

Hershel mutters an "alright" and begins to wrap around the top of his palm a few times with tape before he wraps his pinky finger to the finger next to it. "Give this about a week, before you take it off. You can move it some before then to keep it from getting stiff, but _don't_ overdo it. If after a week it's still having problems, it could be broken. I don't imagine you'd come back just to get it looked at, so just wrap it back up like this and keep it for about two more weeks."

Daryl nods at him. He's right, he has absolutely no intention of coming back just for a broken knuckle when he's had personal experience dealing with the same shit before and came out just fine.

Hershel puts the roll of tape back in a drawer and turns back to Daryl

"Alright let's get back to business. Lie back for me."

Daryl lies back on the bed and holds his breath, not knowing what comes next, and then he feels the prodding on his stomach and gasps. Suddenly he's not lying there on the hospital bed in front of Hershel; he's lying there in front of his dad. His dad is standing there in Hershel's place mocking him and laughing. Shivers spread through his entire body as he reflexively bolts upright, puffing out air, and feeling himself shaking slightly. _What the hell was that?_

"What is it? Did that hurt?" Hershel asks, leaning back quickly from the fast movement.

Daryl shakes his head and cuts his eyes at Hershel.

"Do you-" he clears his throat, trying not to sound as apprehensive as he feels, "do you have ta do that?" He hates himself sounding so… weak. But he doesn't typically like it when people touch him, and he just can't _stand_ it when people touch him where he's scarred up. He usually avoids it as much as possible.

Hershel stares at him for a moment, looking like he's coming to some kind of conclusion, "It'll just be for a moment… quick."

Daryl just frowns at him and slightly shakes his head.

"Just… lie back." Hershel ghosts a hand in front of Daryl's shoulder guiding him back to a lying position, and Daryl lies back feeling extremely uncomfortable.

"I'm about to do it again, alright?"

Daryl closes his eyes tight, ignorant of the fact that Hershel is watching his reaction closely, and concentrates hard on the fact that his dad is dead when he feels Hershel's hands press into his stomach, it would be impossible for it to be his dad. He only opens his eyes when Hershel announces that he's done and tells him to sit up.

Jon's sitting in the waiting room, playing solitaire on his phone. He had just got through texting Diane and vaguely informing her what the deal is after he looked at his phone and saw that she was blowing it up.

Now only a few moves into his game he sees Diane quickly walking through the doors with a serious expression on her face. She looks around and spots Jon sitting there on one of the blue cushion chairs and rushes over to sit in the vacant seat to his right.

"What the hell happened, Jon?" she asks, quietly sitting forward in the chair, clutching her purse to her lap.

Jon leans back and sighs. "Well… I'm thinkin' that he had one of those mini strokes.." he whispers back.

Diane gasps

"-but I'm pretty sure he's gonna be okay. When we got here his symptoms where going away…"

Diane murmurs a, "good."

The state of Daryl's house, along with his gun just lying there in the floor, and Daryl's bloody knuckles flashes through Jon's mind again. Jon scowls as he stares blankly at the forgotten game on his phone.

"What?" Diane asks.

Jon shakes his head. "When I got to his house, it looked like a damn train wreck. Everything was tore to shit. I'm pretty sure if I came home to a house like that I'd have worse than a stroke." He shakes his head again. "And if I understood Daryl right, it was Merle who did it… "

Diane is silent for a moment. "Ya sure it was Merle, an' not those people from the cabin?" She asks quietly.

"Uh-uh. Daryl _said_ it was Merle. I don't see why he would lie about it."

They fall into silence, neither of them having anything to say.

"Do you know how he's doing right now?" Diane breaks the silence.

"No. They won't tell me; I'm not family. But I'm sure he's alright." Jon looks back down at his game, trying to distract himself from the worrying thoughts swirling around in his head. It's after he wins his second game of solitaire that he sees someone staring at him out of the corner of his eye. He keeps playing his game trying to ignore them, but they keep staring at him, actually more eyes start staring at him. Finally, he sighs and looks up at the pair of eyes that have been staring at him.

"Do you need something?" he asks a middle aged woman with done up blond hair, an all around dressed up look. She's sitting with a younger woman with similar features. She's either her daughter or sister because the age gap isn't too big. The older woman has an irritating smile on her face.

"Are you here for Dixon?"

Jon arches a brow and nods his head. He sees the older woman lean over and whisper something in to the younger's ears and giggle. He narrows his eyes at their behavior.

"Have something you'd like to share?"

The woman looks back at him. "Oh! I'm sorry." She laughs again. "We didn't realize Dixon actually _had_ friends. We thought he would have murdered anyone that would have gotten that close to him or scared them off with his dead animal collection." The younger one whispers something into the older one's ear. "Oh," she blurts out before she covers her mouth with her hand, muffling her obnoxiously loud laughter.

Jon can feel himself losing his temper as he watches the two carry on.

"Does he still carry around food like some kind of pack rat?" the older one asks with an annoying smirk. "He always did that when he was little, it was like some weird fetish or something."

Jon furrows his brows. _What in the hell are they talking about?_

Then the younger one speaks up. "Is it true that he's still a… _virgin_?" She whispers the last part before she looks at the older lady, both bursting into fits of laughter.

"I wouldn't do him? Would you do him?" The younger one asks through her fit of giggles and the older one shakes her head.

"Are you kidding? I wouldn't touch that man with a _twenty_ foot pole. He's gross. He'd probably be all cavemen like, drag me out back behind his house in the woods by my hair, throw me against a log and be like-" She proceeds by standing up and thrusting her pelvis in the air with animalistic grunts. They both become red faced, from their poorly contained fists of laughter.

"Who the hell gives you the right to talk shit like that?!" Jon asks aggressively, effectively cutting their laughter short as they fall into silence. "What!? Ya think since you grew up with a lot a' money and a nice family that automatically warrants you the _right_ to make fun of someone who's less fortunate than yerself? Ya think that makes yerself better… think since you've had an easy life that makes the shit that comes out yer asshole not stink? Well guess what. It does, and ya gotta wipe yer ass just like everybody else in this God damned world, so grow the fuck up and pull yer damn high heels out yer ass!"

Jon didn't realize how wound up he had gotten until he feels a soft hand on his bicep and he looks back and sees Diane's face, which's looking back in forth from the women and Jon. He hadn't even realized he stood up during his rant, until he looks down. He sits back down feeling himself shaking from his anger and glares at the two women setting off in the corner of the room.

"Ya'll act like ya'll are big and bad right now – holier than thou, but I bet neither of you would ever say that shit straight to his face," Jon says after a moment, feeling the need to say more. "Daryl's easily a better person than both of you. At least he'd have the guts to say the shit he thinks of someone to their face."

He looks over at the two women again and sees that they are no longer looking at him. They're looking down into their laps, one seeming to suddenly find the anatomy of her hand very interesting while the other studies the layout of her purse. Jon huffs to himself. He's not fool enough to think his little speech is going to change their way of thinking, that fast. He knows as soon as they leave this room they'll probably just go back to their stuck up attitude.

_Self righteous bitches._

He breathes in a calming breath and tries to focus his mind on the solitaire game he's been trying to play for the past thirty minutes. He relaxes a little when he feels Diane message his shoulders from beside him.

Daryl had been sitting there alone in the room for a good while now, just waiting for someone to come back and tell him what the fuck he's suppose to do now. His waiting around makes him wonder if that's what he's going to end up paying them for, him to just sit around twiddling his thumbs.

Hershel had done a shit load of exams on him, ranging from tapping his knees to see his legs reflexes to shining the pin light in his eyes, which was probably the most annoying. Then Hershel left to do something outside of the room, leaving him to just look around the room.

Looking around the room he finds that there isn't much in there to see entertainment-wise, except maybe for the skeleton model in the corner of the room. He can tell it's a male, by the obviously narrow pelvic area. He looks at the model and imagines all the times he's broken bones in his body and uses the model as a reference to picture what that must have looked like inside him.

He's knocked out of his concentration by Hershel walking into the room holding a piece of paper and a hospital gown. He stops when he gets to the foot of the bed.

"The D-dimer in your blood is elevated, so…" Hershel stops for a moment looking at the face Daryl's making.

"… so that means you may have a blood clot. And I'm worried that with the bruising on your head, more so the swelling on the left side of your head, that the injuries you've sustained from your 'spats' caused a blood clot to form in your brain causing the transient ischemic attack that you experienced earlier."

Daryl furrows his eyebrows and frowns at Hershel. "… a what?"

"You've probably heard of them being referred to as a 'mini stroke'. It's the same as a stroke except the blockage is transient… temporary."

"So what does that mean? I don't have the clot anymore?" Daryl asks unsurely, his frown etching concerned lines in his face.

"…Maybe. But since the D-dimer in your blood is elevated and I'm concerned you still might have a clot in your brain. I went ahead and scheduled you for an MRI–"

"There's no way in _hell_ I can afford that!"

"You have insurance, don't you? They'll pay for the majority of it."

Daryl rubs up his face then combs through his hair with his fingers, puffing out air. "Yeah, but I don't know how much it'll cover… if it even covers that sort a' thing." He rubs the back of his neck furiously as he tries to think of something, and then he's suddenly struck with an idea.

"My employer is sitting out there in the waiting room. Jonathan Wesley. He can tell you how much it'll cover."

Hershel looks at him for a moment. "Okay, but I can only tell him a portion of your situation."

Daryl waves a dismissive hand in the air.

"Naw. You can tell him what ever. It's not a problem to me."

Hershel nods his head, "I'll be back in a minute."

Daryl sighs to himself and lies back on the bed folding his arms behind his head, in an attempt to ease the ache in his back from sitting in the same position for to long.

Jon's sitting slouched in the chair with Diane quietly laughing at him.

Not long after his rant, he turned his interest from his solitaire game to a playing a rather loud game of angry birds, the theme playing on an everlasting loop. He pretends not to notice the way that those two women would glare at him or mutter an, "oh my god," secretly finding pleasure from their irritation. He's even more encouraged to irritate by the way they would sigh out loud and dramatically move their arms to cross their arms or legs. But neither of them were willing to tell him to turn it down. Jon smirks to himself.

He only stops when he hears his name called out from the front desk. He looks up and sees an older looking man in doctor's scrubs. The man waves him over and Jon stand up and walks over to him, putting his phone to sleep for the first time in several minutes. He can feel those two bitches watching him, but he doesn't care.

"You're Jonathan Wesley, Mr. Dixon's employer?" Hershel asks as they walk over into the hallway away from the waiting room. Jon looks behind him. He can still see Diane from where he's standing, but anyone in the room wouldn't be able to hear their discussion.

"Yes, that's me," He says after he turns back to face the man.

"I want Mr. Dixon to have an MRI, but he's worried that his insurance won't be able to cover it. Will you tell me how much it's going to cover?"

Jon raises his eyebrows. _MRI?_

"Yeah it'll cover 80% of the cost, but… what's he need it for exactly?" he asks, crossing his arms.

"You're the one who brought him here?" he asks and Jon nods. "So you probably recognized his symptoms as being that of a stroke when you did."

"Yeah." Jon shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"Well I believe that he had a blood clot blocking the blood flow in his brain, from his head injury. But the clot has either moved or dissolved and I'm worried that it might not be the only one. And the MRI is the only way we're going to be able to see it," Hershel explains.

"But he's alright, though?" Jon asks after a few seconds.

"Yes, for the time being, but if he has more blood clots or they move into certain areas we might have problems. Do you see him frequently?"

Jon frowns before he nods his head, "Yeah, we're good friends."

"Well, keep an eye on him and make sure he does what he's suppose to do."

Jon scoffs, "Yeah… I'll try." He looks behind him at Diane who looks up from her phone and makes eye contact with him. "I think my wife might have better luck with that than me."

Hershel looks over at Diane and smiles lightly, "Yeah. Well, I'm going to tell him that his insurance will he cover his expenses." He gives a little wave before he walks back down the hall.

Jon turns around and walks toward his concerned looking wife.

"What was that all about?" she asks with a frown.

"Daryl's worried that his insurance wouldn't cover an MRI test. So his doctor came in here to ask me, I guess."

"But he's okay."

"Yeah," he says. He spares her the extra details that Hershel gave him, at least for now.

Daryl didn't realize he was almost asleep until the sound of footsteps walking into the room startles him into complete awareness. He bolts upright, feeling an unreasonable twinge of fear spark in his belly, as he grabs his chest.

"Ya alright, son?" Hershel asks, stepping closer making a concerned face.

Daryl drops his hand to his side and looks at Hershel. "M'fine. Jus'... fine." Daryl rubs his face. He hadn't realized how fucking tired he is. His lousy sleep from the past couple of days is finally starting to catch up with him.

"Well… Your insurance covers 80% percent of the cost. You think you can handle that?"

Daryl chews on his thumbnail as thinks.

" _Fuck_ ," he whispers to himself. "Fine. I'll do the damn test."

Hershel slightly smiles at him. "Well you'll have to change into this hospital gown. You can't have anything metal in the machine."

Daryl frowns as he stares at the gown Hershel drops down on the bed beside him.

"You can keep your boxers on…" he offers as a little reassurance, but it does little to help ease his discomfort with the idea of wearing the gown.

The gown would obviously be open in the back, letting anyone standing behind him have the privilege of seeing his father's handy work slashed across his back. But what can he do? Daryl breathes out a sigh mixed with a groan. He'll just have to suck it up and hope no one who sees them will actually be interested in furthering the big bundle of rumors that he knows are floating around about him.

"When you get changed just lie back on the bed and one of the nurses will take you to the room." He turns to leave the room, but something suddenly occurs to him causing him to call out.

"Wait, what about my eye socket?"

Hershel stops and turns around to face him.

"I thought of that, but it won't be a problem. It says in your records that it's titanium, which isn't magnetic so it won't interfere with the imaging… Now get dressed," he orders before leaving him alone in the room.

He looks over at the gown and growls.

"I fuckin' hate you."

He slowly starts taking his clothes off one article at a time and laying them over on a chair against the wall, feeling extremely weird about being this underdressed in a public place. When he gets down to his boxers he quickly throws the gown on and ties it off in the back.

Now, with the gown completely secure, he hops onto the bed and waits for the nurses to take him away.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

A nurse comes into the room after about five minutes. She flashes him fake smiles, but he still sees the contempt in her eyes. At least she’s being professional about it. She’s pushing a wheelchair in front of her. Daryl sighs to himself and sits in it. He’s ready to just get this shit over with.

She pushes him out of the room and into the hallway to an elevator down the hall. He isn’t sure how many floors they go up, he doesn’t pay attention. He’s thinking about the MRI machine. If only the plate in his face could have been magnetic… Suddenly the image of him walking in there and then flying through the room face first, getting smashed against the machine and breaking his face, pops in his head. He bursts out a laugh. _What the hell? That’s not funny….But it kinda is…_

He sees the nurse watching him like he’s lost his damn mind, but he doesn’t give a shit. She can go fuck herself for all he cares.

They exit the elevator and she pushes the chair down the hall and turns the corner and goes through some double doors that they have to flash a card to. Then they enter this room where Daryl gets out of the wheelchair. She hands him a release form he has to sign saying he has no metal and, again, the scene from before pops into his head. He laughs to himself again as he signs his name. He hands them the paper and they direct him inside another door that he lets himself into.

When he enters the room he’s greeted by a familiar face. A face he knows well and doesn’t much care for. He internally groans when he sees that the MRI technician is Paul Preston. He was in his class when he went to school. Always the top of the class – straight A’s, that kind of thing, but he was also a dick. Still is. Anyone whose grade point average was below a 3.5 was a dumbass in his book, especially Daryl. But not because of his grades; mainly because of his long lineage of people who never gave a fuck and dropped out of school.

“Dixon,” Paul says in way of greeting as he walks in. “Lie down on the table.”

Daryl walks over to the table mindful of the opening of the gown at his back and lies down. Paul hands him some earplugs.

“Put these in your ears. It’s going to get loud in there.”

Daryl takes them and mashes them in his ears.

“Now don’tmove at all when I slide you in there,” Paul says louder on account of the earplugs muffling the sound.

Daryl nods his head with a frown. Paul fastens a cage looking thing over Daryl’s head and then throws a blanket over Daryl’s legs. He hands him this button to hold and press if for some reason or another he needs to get out. The next thing he knows he’s going into this hole that keeps getting smaller and smaller the further he goes in, giving him the illusion that it’s closing in around him.

His chest tightens as panic begins to set in. He wishes he wouldn’t have seen that image. The urge to sit up is stronger than it ever has been before now that there isn’t room to.

 _Don’t move_ , he reminds himself. He closes his eyes, cutting off the view of the confining space as the machine begins to make a slow rhythmic knocking sound. He feels his nerves making him vibrate as he quells all urges to move his arms or legs.

After a few minutes the knocking sound begins to pick up in speed and quantity all around him, making him feel that much more stressed.

It’s minutes later when he starts feeling himself moving. He begins to panic until he realizes that he’s being slid out of the tube. He looks up at Paul who asks him how he’s feeling. Daryl just grunts out something resembling a “yeah”. Paul pulls out a syringe filled with some substance and brings it towards his arm.

“What the fuck is that?” Daryl asks, pointing at the syringe. He’s been stabbed enough for one day, he doesn’t need any more holes in his arm.

“It’s a syringe, Dixon.”

Daryl rolls his eyes and suppresses an annoyed growl. “I fuckin’ know that. What the hell’s it for?”

Paul arches his eyebrow at Daryl like he asked if the moon was made out of cheese.

“It’s contrast. Dye for your veins…” he adds, but Daryl just stares at him. Paul scoffs.

“It’ll highlight any blood clots.”

“Ain’t nobody told me about no contrast.”

“Well they should’ve. Give me your arm.”

Daryl stares at the man for a second longer before reluctantly sliding his arm outward towards Paul with the crook of his elbow facing up so Paul can inject the dye into his vein. After he does that he slides Daryl back into the tube.

Again Daryl closes his eyes so he’s not constantly reminded that he’s in a small tube with limited moving space.

After quite a few minutes the sound of the knocking begins to add pain to the headache in Daryl’s head, and on top of that he feels his head beginning to spin. It’s all so distracting that keeping himself still completely escapes his minds as he tilts his head to the side a little bit trying to ease his pain.

A voice from a speaker cutting into the pounding sounds around his head startles him and he jumps.

“Stop moving! You move and mess up the image; you’ll have to do this again.”

Daryl moves his head back straight, but also raises his hand up and flips off the air. He smirks to himself when he imagines Paul probably watching the screen, showing his image in the tube, with a scowl on his face.

Daryl battles his sudden onset of nausea while he makes some kind of rhythm out of the constant pounding noise to distract himself.

It seems like it takes longer than it actually does before the machine begins to wind down and for the knocking to stop. It seems to take even longer for him to slide out.

He hears Paul ask him something as he takes the cage and blanket off, but he doesn’t pay attention. Daryl sits up and steps off the table. The shift in position for his head makes him lose his balance as the room spins. He stumbles to the side and grabs the closest thing to him, Paul, to keep himself from falling. He feels Paul grab onto his arm tightly and his first reaction is to panic. Daryl grunts as he rips his arm from Paul and stumbles into the shelf against the wall, breathing hard. He rubs his face with his hands as he regains his composure.

“You alright, Dixon?”

Daryl looks up and is surprised to see that Paul’s face almost portrays concern… _almost_.

“Peachy,” Daryl grunts out as he drops his hands.

Paul sighs, “Well, the nurse is waiting to take you back to your room.”

Daryl nods stiffly and heads for the door. He goes through the door and sits down in the wheelchair next to the nurse with a grunt.

The nurse tries to carry conversation with Daryl when she pushes him back to his room; Daryl pays no mind. He’s just ready to get out of this damn hospital. But he still hears her talking. He doesn’t know who she thinks she’s talking to because he sure as hell isn’t listening.

She pushes him into the room he was in earlier, beside the bed. He gets out of the wheelchair and sits himself down on the bed, his back facing away from the woman.

“You can change back into your clothes if you want to.”

Daryl looks at her, “Naw, I think I like walking around these hospital gowns…. Nice breeze.”

The nurse raises her eyebrows at him as confusion settles into her face.

He furrows his brows, “I’as jokin’.”

The nurse’s face then changes into a look of understanding as she lets out a small nervous laugh and leaves without another word.

Daryl looks around the room for his clothes and locates them in a chair in a clear plastic bag. He hops off the bed and staggers for a second as he crosses the room to the chair and picks up the bag. He unzips it with the enthusiasm of a kid opening the package for their new toy. He dumps out the clothes on the chair and picks up his pants to start with first.

He pulls on his cargo pants and fastens his belt. He looks around the room to double check even though he knows no one is in the room before he begins to untie the strings from his backside. He throws the gown down and snatches up his t-shirt. He’s just pulling it over his head when he hears the door click closed. Daryl panics and hastily pulls the shirt the rest of the way down, getting an elbow hung in the armhole for a split second.

He looks over at the door to see Hershel standing there staring at him, face blank.

Daryl crosses his arms across his chest defensively, almost with a hugging manner, and diverts his gaze to Hershel’s shoes until he sees him walk over the cabinet to his left. Daryl looks up at Hershel’s back with a scowl.

“Was it your brother?”

Caught off guard, Daryl gapes at him for a moment before he begins to connect the dots and feels irritation begin to flow throw him.

“‘Scuse me?”

Hershel turns around calmly and faces Daryl.

“Was it your brother that you got most of your bruises from?”

Daryl lets out a breath through his nose he didn’t know he was holding. _Bruises… Man’s talkin’ about the bruises_. Maybe he was fast enough putting his shirt on that all he saw was the dark bruises decorating his waist.

Daryl nods, lightly moving one hand to rub the back of his neck, “M… most of ‘em.”

Hershel nods his head, “I’m not going to pretend that I know what you deal with personally and on a day to day basis, but I’ve met Merle on a few occasions and I know that he’s displayed volatile behavior for each time that I have. I’ve heard several rumors about you and your family over the years, but I’ve never been one to let other people make my opinions for me; I come to my _own_ conclusions. The things I’ve heard of your brother, although some being absurd, do seem to hold some truth to them. But _you_ seem to be nothing of who everyone says you are. You seem like a decent man, which leads me to refute everything I’ve hear about you.”

Daryl swallows and crosses his arms over his chest tighter, digging his fingers into his ribs. All Hershel’s sentiment is making him feel just a tad bit uncomfortable. “Ya got a point to all this er you jus’ ramblin’?”

Hershel shakes his head a little at Daryl’s attitude. “I know there are a lot of people around here that treat you poorly, for what reason I don’t know-”

“You and me both,” Daryl mumbles

“But I want to let you know that I’m not going to be one of those people. I’m a doctor and I care about my patients.” Hershel catches Daryl’s eyes. “ _All_ of them.”

Daryl honestly doesn’t know what to say to this. He uncrosses his arms as he breaks eye contact and shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking backward and forward slightly.

“Do you live with your brother?”

Daryl looks back at Hershel and shakes his head after a beat. “Mm-mm, not anymore. I kicked him out a couple days ago.”

“The bruises?”

Daryl frowns and looks down before looking back at him nodding his head, “Mmhm.” Daryl looks down at his feet and realizes he’s still standing barefooted. He walks over to the chair and clears everything in it onto the counter next to it and takes a seat. He begins putting his socks on as Hershel looks at the clipboard in his hand.

The door opens and a nurse carrying some paper peeks in and looks around before her eyes settle on Hershel.

“There you are.”

Hershel raises a brow in question, “I didn’t run off. Where did you think I’d be?”

The nurse blushes and walks over to him handing him the papers. “Here’s the results to the test,” she says before she walks out of the room. Hershel looks down at the papers and reads over them for a few seconds.

“Well, it looks like you’re off the hook. There aren’t any clots here. But you need to treat this as a warning,” Hershel says.

Daryl looks up at him, “Warning?”

“Although the cause of your TIA is different from the usual, you could still be at risk of having a stroke, considering that the TIA happened in the first place. Out of the patients who have had TIAs, four to twenty percent progress to strokes within 90 days. So I want you to be careful with yourself. I’m going to ask you to stop smoking, even though I imagine you won’t; watch how much you drink, some is fine just no excessive drinking; exercise regularly; and eat a balanced diet. I’ve noticed you’re a little underweight for your height and build, so I would suggest eating a little more often.” Hershel stops and pulls out a card from his pocket.

“I know coming to the hospital is taxing and time consuming, but if you start experiencing any problems, come back here immediately. It could help you in the long run and it might just save your life.” He leans forward and hands Daryl the card. He accepts it without really thinking. “That’s my card. Don’t be afraid to call me if you have any questions, about anything really… not just for stroke related issues.”

Daryl looks down at the card in his hands and turns it over. He unconsciously rubs his thumb across the card. Yet again he doesn’t really know how to respond. He’s touched to say the least. Here this man he barely even knows is treating him the way he wishes other people would, and he didn’t even have to do anything. But he doesn’t know how to say any of that and if he did he’s not even sure that he would want to anyway. He looks back up at the man letting his eyes say what his words could not.

Apparently Hershel is pleased with what he reads in Daryl’s eyes because he gives him a smile, “Now I imagine you wouldn’t want to stay in the hospital overnight…”

Daryl’s mind is snapped back to the situation and where he is from Hershel’s words. “Hell no.”

“Well then. I’ll get you the papers so you can sign yourself out.”

…

 

The drive back to Daryl’s house is quiet. He hasn’t said a single word since he walked into the waiting room.   Before Daryl came out to the waiting room, Hershel pulled Jon aside and told him the things to make sure that Daryl does, and to keep an eye on him. He also told him that he thinks that Daryl should take a week off from work and then he gave him his card. He worries that it might be hard to convince Daryl that he needs to take a week off. He wants Daryl to have the time recuperate. He’d hate for him to get out there and end up working himself to death. Not that he thinks Daryl’s that bad off, but he knows how Daryl gets when he gets into his work.

Jon glances over to Daryl who's just looking out the passenger window.

“I think maybe you should take a week off from work.”

That gets Daryl’s attention. Daryl straightens up in his seat and turns his head to face Jon with a harsh expression.

“Why?” he asks, tone edging on defensive. “What, you think that mini stroke’s rendered me incompetent? Think I can’t handle my job?”

Jon leans back slightly at the harshness in his voice.

“No.” Jon is silent for a second. “I thought you could use a break, considering everything that’s going on with you. Let your hand heal and get everything in order.”

Daryl’s face relaxes just the slightest before he turns to look back out the window before mumbling out, “Yeah… well, I’m fine. I don’t need no break.”

Jon sighs through his nostrils. “You may think you don’t, but I think you do. And that’s what’s going to happen.”

“You can’t keep me away from my work, Jon. Them boys can’t tell shit from a rock without me.”

“Look, I’ll deal with it. But you’re not going to work-”

“I’ll just go anyway,” Daryl says with a tone that suggests the conversations over, but Jon’s not done.

“No… you won’t,” Jon says letting his annoyance taint his voice.

“How ya gonna keep me from going inta work, anyway?”

“Daryl… If I catch you up there I’ll suspend you for a month,” he spits sharply, overcome with irritation. He looks over at Daryl, who’s gaping at him.

“Yer not fuckin’ serious?”

“I’m very serious. And you need to just suck it up right now because this is how it’s gonna be. I don’t care if you _do_ think you can handle going back to work. ‘Cause you ain’t goin’.”

Daryl crosses his arms. “Fuck you then.”

“What!?” Jon parks the truck on the side of the road. “Daryl, we’re good friends.” He pauses to watch if Daryl will respond. He only sits staring out the window. “My best friend actually, but you seem to forget that I’m also your boss. And yer one of my employees. And when it comes to work, you have to do what I say. I look out for my employees. I’m also serious about situation pertaining to work, and this does,” Jon says in his reprimanding tone that would make anyone squirm in their seat.

Jon falls silent as he puts the truck back in drive, but he silence now is much more tense. He can practically feel the vibes coming from Daryl as he sits in his seat, sulking and chewing on his thumb.

When Jon pulls up into Daryl’s driveway and parks the truck, he shuts it off and turns to Daryl in his seat.

“Look, I’m not trying to be mean.”

Daryl turns and looks at him, face void of emotions.

“It’s not some kind of personal attack; I think it could benefit you. You need a break anyway, it’s long overdue. Just think of it as a vacation.”

He sees Daryl’s chest expand from a deep breath before letting it out and looking away. Daryl pushes open the truck door and slams it shut behind him and begins walking towards the front door. Jon is about to put his truck in reverse when he notices that Daryl has stopped in his doorway and is frozen in place, staring in.

Jon shuts his truck off and gets out, approaching him. Jon calls out when he steps onto the small porch. “Daryl, ya okay?”

Daryl doesn’t even twitch at the sound of his voice. Jon walks up behind Daryl and looks over his shoulder into the house. He shifts his eyes and looks at the side of Daryl’s face. His face is completely blank, giving nothing away.

Jon gently pushes at Daryl’s back to try and get him in the house, but Daryl feels like his feet have been bolted to the floor and he barely moves an inch. Jon pushes with much more effort and Daryl stiffly steps into the house. Jon stops about two feet from the door and closes the door behind him.

He turns back around and looks at Daryl. He realizes that he hasn’t been staring into space, like he thought, but _at_ the space. At the atrocious ruin his brother created from his house.

He walks around in front of Daryl and looks into his eyes, but they look straight through him.

“Daryl.” He waves a hand in front of his face, nothing. He snaps his fingers a couple of times. “Daryl,” he tries again. Still no response.

Jon turns around and looks at the living room again. It really amazes him that his own brother could do that to him, without even much forethought. And this right here is a perfect example of why Jon doesn’t like Merle. He’s always thought he was a self-centered coke head, who only uses Daryl for personal gain. He’s never said any of this out loud to Daryl, where he figured that would only stress him out on top of everything he deals with. But ever since Jon’s known the man his opinion of him has never wavered.

He hears a strange sound and turns around to see Daryl with a frown on his face. He’s stricken for a moment when he sees how heartbroken he looks.

Suddenly Daryl’s rushing past him, not even sparing him a glance, into his room where he slams the door shut.

After a few seconds of debating Jon decides to walk over to the closed door. He leans towards it before speaking. “I guess I’ll get going. I’ll probably drop by or call tomorrow.”

Jon listens for some kind of response, but hears none. He straightens back up and walks towards the front door, giving the rooms a lingering glance before he heads back out. He heads home, feeling the heavy weight of concern bearing down on him.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Daryl’s tired, he’s mad at everyone and himself, but most of all… he’s depressed. He looks at the tired, red eyed, bruised face staring back at him in the mirror and all he can think of is how little his life actually means, how much a piece of shit he is. And as far as he’s concerned right now, he has no brother.

The whole situation with Merle hadn’t really hit him until he walked back through his front door earlier and now it’s overwhelming and he damn near can’t handle it. The feeling has taken up residence in his chest is making it ache. It surprises him how much it actually hurts.

He wipes the strands of hair hanging over his eyes out of his face. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, but he knows moping around isn’t it. He just doesn’t know how to make himself stop.

He’s always usually had a good rein on his emotions, but now they're all over the place and it puts him on edge. He feels helpless and like he has no control.

He scratches the scruffy beard he’s grown on his cheeks, noticing how much it’s grown out, but he can’t seem to muster up enough damns to actually give to do anything about it. Sighing, he looks over at the shower and decides he’ll start the rest of his day with that; he knows he needs it. He rips the bandage off his stab wound and drops it on the counter beside the sink. He looks down at his hand and remembers the fuckin’ medical tape around it. Cursing under his breath, he walks out of his bathroom into his room. He knows he used to keep box of plastic bags in his closet, no particular reason, it was just a place to put it. Looking around he sees the box peeking out from underneath a pair of pants; he snatches it up and pulls a bag out and wraps his hand with it and goes back to the bathroom.

He strips down to nothing and throws his clothes in the floor. It’s not like it’ll matter much if he keeps his bathroom tidy, the contents he keeps in the medicine cabinet and the drawers are all strewn out across the floor.

He gets the water temperature to his liking and steps under the stream.

After he steps out of the tub he can’t even tell you what he did through the entire shower because he was more or less just going through the motions. He knows he washed his hair because of it dripping water down his face. He rips the plastic bag off his hand before picking up a towel and drying himself off. He wraps it around his hips even though there’s no one there to see his nudity. He spots a pair of boxers in his room and puts them on and drops his towel on the floor.

Fatigue floods through Daryl and he finds himself sitting on the bed without telling himself to. The bed is one of the things that managed to not be destroyed during Merle and Tommy’s search through his house. Luckily, Daryl got there in time.

Daryl pulls back the sheets and sinks into the mattress with a moan. It’s barely even 4 o’clock, but right now he can barely lift his arm to wipe the hair off of his face that he’s lying against. Another wave of depression hits him and he begins feeling sick of himself.

He closes his eyes and tries to quell the painful ache in his chest. He tries to think of anything else to get his mind in a different state, but finds it difficult. It doesn’t matter in the end, though, because he’s so mentally exhausted that he drifts off into a restless sleep.

….

He had just come home from a terrible day at school. He was so hungry during class he couldn’t concentrate on the day’s lesson. When he got the class work handed to him he didn’t know what the fuck the answers were, but he wanted to get them right. He ended up being the only one still working on the worksheet when all the other students were finished and talking to their friends. Daryl began getting angry at himself because he didn’t know the answers and because he couldn’t focus on what the teacher was saying through the terrible pain in his belly. He accidentally let out an angry growl and the kid next to him looked over.

“What’s the matter, Daryl? Don’t you get it? It’s so _easy_!”

Daryl wadded the sheet up into a ball furiously, and snapped his head over to the kid, glaring daggers.

“Why don’t you shut the hell up!?” Before the kid even had a chance to respond, Daryl punched him in the face and crammed the paper ball in the kid’s mouth.

“ _Daryl!!_ ”

Daryl froze at the tone of his teacher’s voice then turned slowly to look at her.

“Go to the principal’s office _now!_ ” She pointed to the door.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she added lowly when he walked by. Truth was, he did feel bad… almost immediately after he did it, and the crying filling the classroom’s silence didn’t help his case either.

In the office, Daryl got a lecture about his temper and was given an ultimatum between the principle calling his dad or being paddled. The choice was easy for him: the paddle. The paddle was by no means worse than anything his dad would ever do to him if the principle called.

Now Daryl was stuck at home with a sleeping father in the living room, most likely drunk. He had to sneak past him to get to his room and drop his school stuff off.

He had to do something about his hunger, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d actually eaten anything, but the thought of his daddy catching him made his blood run cold.

Daryl held his breath as he tiptoed back through the living room and right next to his dad. He blew out a sigh as relief flooded through him when he reached the kitchen without his dad sensing his movement.

Daryl approached the refrigerator but hesitated before he grabbed the handle and pulled it open.

There wasn’t much. Milk was the only thing in there with any real value to him and it was probably expired. Daryl shut the door with a disappointed sigh. He looked over at the pantry and bit his thumb.

 _What if he notices something missing?_ The things his mind came up with of what his dad might do to him flashed through his mind made him feel desperate tears start to form in his eyes and a tight lump develop in his throat. His stomach growled noisily and Daryl pressed a hard hand into it in a lame attempt to make it stop. He frowned and pursed his lips to keep them from quivering. _Maybe if I take something from the back he won’t notice._

Daryl walked quietly across the kitchen to the pantry. He opened the doors and looked at the cans and packages of food he could choose from inside. He eventually decided on a can of raviolis and pulled it free from the back, trying to keep the messy pile from toppling over onto the floor. Now with the can free from the pile he pushed the door closed and turned around, can in hand, almost with a smile on his face.

The smile immediately faded when he looked up, seeing Will standing there in the doorway. Daryl accidentally let loose a girlish squeal from the back of his throat. He was glad he already went to the bathroom otherwise he would’ve be pissing down his pant legs right then. Daryl furiously tried to swallow the lump in his throat as he felt his eyes begin to burn.

Will was staring at him hard, calculating eyes almost immediately zeroing in on the can Daryl was trying to hide behind his back.

Will rushed towards him and Daryl quickly backed up, making his back collide with the pantry, intentionally cornering himself in. Will grabbed his wrist and twisted, making him drop the can on the floor.

Daryl cried out at the pain of his wrist twisting past its normal range, which only made Will squeeze harder.

Will wrapped his hand around Daryl’s throat, holding his head against the pantry.

“Wha’d I tell you ‘bout getting’ in mah food, boy?” Will hissed in his son’s face, squeezing Daryl’s throat for emphasis.

“Tha’ ya’d sk-skin…” Daryl tried to swallow past the hand constricting his throat, which produced a strained gulping sound, while he also tried to control the quiver in his voice. “….m-my hide if I did,” Daryl choked out, barely intelligible.

Will smiled then, showing his yellow, decaying teeth, and let out a sadistic chuckle. He released his grip on Daryl and patted him roughly on the shoulder, making Daryl flinch.

“Tha’s mah boy. Knew ya’d learn a thing er two ‘ventually.”

Will took a step back, away from Daryl, and Daryl immediately saw this as a window of opportunity to grab the can from the floor and high tail his ass out of there. Daryl didn’t stop to think how illogical his plan was before acting on it.

Daryl lurched forward to snatch up the can, but he was suddenly slammed against the wall, ending up a pile on the floor.

“You little _shit!!_ ” Will clamped an iron grip on Daryl’s forearm and yanked him up from the floor.

Will stood there gritting his teeth, his eyes on fire, with the veins in his neck sticking out. “Ya know what happens ta little shits like you,” he hissed in Daryl’s ear. “Huh? I aughta lock yo ass in the basement.”

Will manhandled Daryl into turning around and facing the wall. He heard the tell-tale jingle of his daddy’s belt buckle as he ripped his belt out of its loops, and felt the icy prickle of fear and dread cover his skin because he knew what was coming.

Then his dad roughly gripped the back of his neck and forced his face forward to the floor. Then he felt the sting of Will’s belt dig into his already sore ass and he lost control of the squalling cry that streamed out of his mouth, that’d been building up inside him all day.

….

Daryl opens his eyes and sucks in a breath with a start. He brings a fist up to his eye and rubs it and is surprised to find moisture there. He sits up in his bed with a moan and tries to forget about the dream he had. It wasn’t so much of a dream as it was a memory, and the worst part was his dad only got worse concerning his food after that.

Daryl looks over at the clock and sees the numbers and letters 8:02 pm shining into the night in red letters.

“Fuck.”

Daryl plops back into bed and rolls over, pulling the covers over his head, basking in the warmth. He consciously positions his head to avoid any pressure against his nose as he presses his face into the pillow. The nights are getting colder, so his room has a crisp chill to the air and he’s only dressed in boxers.

He would love to be able to get back to sleep, but he knows he won’t. He can feel his nerves are restless and he’s unable to relax himself. He tries shifting in himself in different positions, but each one does nothing to ease his anxiety. More frustration builds up inside him the longer he can’t get back to sleep and eventually he throws the covers off of himself with a growl and gets out of bed.

He stomps out of his room and into the kitchen. He falters when he sees all his shit dumped onto the floor. All the new food he bought strewed out across the floor, spoiled. Cans, pots, pans, broken glasses and dishes, his silverware, knives, hell even some of the cabinet doors were ripped off… his cereal is dumped into the floor. The boxes are ripped up, making it look like a puppy went on a rampage.

Daryl picks up one of the dining chairs and heaves it across the room with a deep, angry cry. The chair breaks as it hits the wall and clatters to the floor.

Daryl feels like he might just cry. This is too much shit all at once, he just got most of this shit a few days ago and now he’s back down to nothing…again.

Daryl puts a hand over his face and tries to calm his nerves. He lets out a shaky sigh and heads to the cabinet he knows is supposed to house his glasses. Not too surprisingly he finds the cabinet mostly empty. Most of the glasses had been tossed down onto the floor, but some of the smaller glasses in the back were left alone. He reaches in and pulls out one. He walks over to the faucet and runs himself some much needed water. He chugs it down immediately and runs himself a second glass.

He carries the glass with him into the living room. He pointedly ignores the way his chair had been destroyed to the point of being completely unusable. Daryl’s emotions rise higher at the way its cut up makes it feel much more personal than if he was just looking for drugs in the cushions. It seems right up Merle’s ally to destroy something that was his that he wishes he could have but can’t.

Daryl sets the glass down on the coffee table and notices for the first time the words “fuck you!” carved into it. He sees more words peeking out from underneath his glass. He moves it over and reads the words “Notiss somthin missing, baby brother?”

As soon as he comprehends the words he looks around the room, searching for what he could be talking about. It’s hard to tell in the dark, everything is not where it’s supposed to be. He plops down on his shitty couch and leans back and realizes with a start what’s missing as he stares straight ahead at the empty space where the TV use to be.

The stinging in his eyes wells up again as he squints his eyes at the wall, frowning miserably. That’s just not fair. He might have to go pay some certain assholes a visit. This shit is just unacceptable.

Daryl lies down along the couch and thinks about everything. That’s all he _can_ do; he can’t shut his brain off. The longer he thinks about it the more he realizes that the possibility of Merle stealing something else of his is very high, but Daryl can’t find the heart in him to actually go and look. He almost doesn’t want to know if Merle would be willing to try and hurt him that much more by stealing more of his shit. What he’s done already is bad enough.

Daryl curls up into a ball on his side on the couch. He stays that way for a long time. After about four hours of just lying there he can’t take it anymore. Daryl gets up and walks back to his room, avoiding the broken glass on the floor as he goes. He goes to the bathroom and pulls out his phone from the pants he left lying on the floor earlier.

He walks over to the edge of his bed and sits down and stares at his phone. It’s 12:30am, late for some people, but for others it might not be. He bites his lip as he considers whether to call or not. He opens the message app and types, “you awake?” and presses send.

He watches the screen for a moment, waiting to see the word bubble with the ellipses to show them writing. After so long of seeing nothing he puts the phone down beside him and lies back on his bed and stares at the ceiling. He’s in that state where he’s so fuckin’ tired that he wouldn’t be able to sleep… even if he wanted to.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when his phone’s ring penetrates the silence. He scrambles for it and slides the lock.

“Hel – ”

“Is everything okay, Daryl?!” Diane asks urgently.

Daryl sighs. “… Sure, you could say ‘okay’.”

Diane is silent for a second. “Well are _you_ okay?”

“Ehh…” Daryl scratches the back of his neck. “I’m still breathin’.”

He hears Diane sigh on the other end of the line. “Did you need something, Daryl?”

Daryl is beginning to regret calling so late and begins to clam up, letting his nerves take control. “I… I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to bother you…” He’s about to hang up, but Diane stops him.

“No, wait Daryl! Whatever it is, you can tell me. I was already awake, so you didn’t bother me. I’m the one who called you, remember?” She laughs to herself.

Daryl sighs to himself. “I jus’…” Daryl pauses, willing himself to keep talking. “I jus’ needed to hear someone’s voice…”

The line remains quiet. It remains quiet for so long he has to check to make sure the line hadn’t ended.

“Diane?”

“I’m here, sorry… how come you didn’t call Jon?”

“I figured he’d be asleep by now, plus I don’t really want to talk to him right now, I’m still pissed at ‘im.”

“Pissed? Why would you be pissed?” she asks with a confused tone.

“He hasn’t told you?”

“No.”

“He’s makin’ me take a week off from work.”

She’s silent for a second. “Well… you could prob’ly use a break –”

“Damnit! That’s not what I need!” he shouts before calming himself, realizing he shouldn’t take out his frustration on her. “I don’t need a fuckin’ break.” Daryl stops for a moment before adding quietly, “I need the money.”

Daryl rubs his chin roughly. “I don’t really want to talk about that. Actually, I don’t really want to talk at all…”

“Why’d you call me then?”

“Because…” Daryl swallows. “So I wouldn’t feel so alone.”

“Daryl… you know yer welcome to stay here with us, or come over anytime.”

“No, no. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to be in the way.”

“You wouldn’t be. I’m serious, yer welcome to stay with us anytime.”

Daryl hums at her and then line falls silent.

“I heard what happened with Merle at yer house… is it as bad as it sounds?”

Daryl groans and rubs his face. “It’s fuckin’ worse. I don’t even know where to fuckin’ start..” Daryl says exasperatedly.

“Ya know if ya want. I can come over and help. I know from experience cleaning a big mess can be a tedious process when yer by yourself.”

Daryl thinks about it. “Ya know what… Yeah, yeah I think help would be nice.”

“What time should I come over?”

Daryl scratches the light sprinkling of hair on his chest. “Mm… 10:00 sound alright?”

“I think I could drag myself out of bed by then. So it’s a date then?” she jokes.

Daryl scoffs and feels his face heat up. “Sure. Yeah… whatever.”


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Diane wakes up early and gets dressed so she can head over to Daryl’s at ten like he said. When she gets there she notes that at least his yard looks normal, or as normal as a yard with work things collected up over time like truck parts and old cables decorating it can look. She parks her car beside Daryl’s blue ford and gets out.

She knocks on the front door and waits for a few seconds. The door doesn’t open so she assumes he didn’t hear her so she knocks again. She’s startled when she hears Daryl’s annoyed yell from inside the house.

“I’m comin’! Jus’ give me a fuckin’ second!! _Damn._ ”

Diane bites her lip at his tone.

She takes an involuntary step back when the door flings open and Daryl’s looking down at her with an intense glare, but then his glare soften significantly when, she guesses, he realizes that it’s her standing there.

“Come on in, girl,” he mutters gruffly, past the cigarette dangling from his mouth. It looks like he just threw on some clothes from the way only two of the lower buttons of his shirt were buttoned, covering his stomach, but leaving the top wide open allowing her to see his chest perfectly; complete with a view of sparse curly hair and a couple of scars peeking out. He must notice her looking because he looks down at his chest and quickly starts buttoning the top part closed.

He clears his throat with a hint of pink staining his cheeks and shifts his weight. “Come on in,” he repeats himself, pushing the door open a little wider and Diane steps inside.

She fails miserably at controlling the gasp that escapes her when she sees the inside of his house.

“Yeah… I know,” she hears Daryl mumble quietly from behind her.

She turns to look at him and notices how tired he looks. She wonders if he was able to get any sleep. If he weren’t sporting two black eyes already she knows that he would probably have dark circles under his eyes judging by the haggard look overtaking his features. She turns to look back at the destruction, mouth slightly hanging open.

“Does… does the rest of yer house look this way?” She turns back to look at him and he presses his lips into a thin line and gives her a glum nod. “Damn…”

She begins walking farther into the living room to get a better look and Daryl trails behind her puffing on his cigarette. She scans over the room, taking a little longer to look at the murdered recliner. She continues to scan over the room and notices that his TV isn’t sitting on its stand, and it’s not a TV that someone would easily miss; it was actually a really nice flat screen TV. He bought it for himself when he felt he had the extra money to splurge. She knows this because when he got it he couldn’t contain his excitement about the whole thing and ended up telling Jon about it.

“Did he break yer TV too?” she asks, and a look of misery crosses his face before it dissolves into something else, something she’s not sure she likes the look of.

He shakes his head. “Mm-mm. He took it.”

Her eyes widen. “He _stole_ it?”

“Yep,” he says curtly. “Don’t worry I’ll be paying them a visit real soon.”

“Them?”

“Yeah. Him an’ Tommy.”

Diane frowns. “Don’t do anything rash, Daryl. We don’t need you goin’ ta jail, for what… a TV?”

Daryl looks at her hard, with a scowl. “Don’t worry about it.” It sounds more forced than it probably should have, but he got his point across because she doesn’t think she’d make him change his mind even if he is planning something that could end with him in trouble.

Deciding to change the topic, she heads into the kitchen to look at everything. She sighs and runs a hand through her curly hair as she looks at the absolute mess, and then looks back at Daryl.

“Well, guess if we wanna get anything done we should get started,” Daryl proposes with a sigh.

So they get to work. Daryl picks up all the spoiled food that had been dumped onto the floor, which is pretty much everything he has, and puts it in a large black trash bag. Diane sweeps up everything on the floor that isn’t too big into a pile.

All in all the things that they manage to recover from the kitchen that weren’t completely destroyed, not including any of the food, is less than 20% of everything that was. The longer they spend on putting everything that wasn’t broken back into its rightful place and throwing away everything that’s broken, the more she begins to think that Merle destroyed most of Daryl’s things just to spite him. And judging by the long expression that’s been set in Daryl’s face half way through cleaning the kitchen, he’s thinking the same thing.

It takes them almost two hours to get the kitchen looking presentable. Each of them carry two bags of trash out by the road for when the trash runs. They walk back in and set down at the dining table, taking a break.

Daryl sighs and leans an elbow on the table and leans his head against his hand. “Well… I would make coffee right now, but I don’t have a coffee maker anymore… or any coffee,” Daryl says waving his other hands in the air. “Hell, I’d prob’ly make us lunch, but I cain’t fuckin’ do that shit neither!” he yells, voice tight with frustration.

“Stop! Stop doing that.”

Daryl scoffs. “Stop what? It’s fuckin’ true. Merle did best what he’s always done best.” He gets up and grabs one of the few glasses out of the cabinet and runs himself some water, his movements rough and jerky. “Shoulda run his ass outa ‘ere a long damn time ago. Then at least all this shit woulda been done and over with and I’d be back on track without his ass weighin’ me down,” he growls, getting another glass from the cabinet and looking at her over his shoulder. “Want some fuckin’ _water_?” he asks sharply.

She stares at him for a second, she _knows_ he’s not mad at her but there for a second it felt like he was directing it at her. She eventually nods her head. “Yeah, that would be good.”

Daryl turns back to the faucet and runs her some water in the glass, grumbling something under his breath that she can’t understand. He turns around and sets the glass down in front of her, with a little more force than necessary. “There. Ain’t like I fuckin’ got much else no way,” he mutters before sitting down in his chair with his own glass in hand. He chugs his water down quickly and sets it on the table and leans back in his chair and lights up another cigarette.

Diane finishes her own glass and sets it down on the table as well. “I guess we can start on the living room…”

She sees Daryl look over there and frown. “Yeah…”

They both get up and head over to the living room. Diane immediately starts picking up drawers that have been pulled out from Daryl’s desk he has over against the wall and putting them back in. Not really knowing if she’s putting them in the right spots, but at least she’s getting them off the floor. She looks down at the papers and manila folders scattered across the floor and shakes her head. Daryl’s going to have to do that. She doesn’t know what goes with what and where.

She looks over at Daryl and sees him looking down at his recliner with a blank expression. She walks over to stand beside him and joins him in looking at it.

“I think he pissed on it…” Daryl says absentmindedly.

Diane turns and looks at him quickly. “What?”

He looks down at her with a frown. “I think the asshole pissed on mah chair… er,” he looks back at it. “..what’s left of it.”

“How can you tell?”

Daryl looks back at her like she asked if cats and dogs were the same species. “Cain’t you smell it… an’ look.” He points at a darker section of some of the fabric still in place. “It’s darker ‘an the rest…” He stares at the chair again.

Diane nearly jumps out of her skin when Daryl suddenly kicks his chair over and starts screaming, “Fuckin’ asshole _pissed_ on mah chair!!! He _pissed_ on it!” Daryl says, raising his hands up in disbelief. He lets out a strained laugh and turns to Diane, still chuckling. “Can you fuckin’ believe that?”

“I- I don’t know.”

She flinches again when Daryl starts kicking the chair repeatedly, grunting and cursing with each kick. She panics when she hears him growl with pain, but keeps on kicking just as aggressively.

“Daryl, stop!! Yer gonna end up fuckin’ breakin’ yer foot!” she yells, but he keeps kicking. She reaches for his arm, knowing that it could be a bad idea but doing it anyway. “Daryl!! _STOP!!!_ ”

Daryl stops abruptly and rips his arm from her grasp and paces away from her, huffing. After he gets his breathing under control he turns and looks at her with sorry eyes.

Diane breathes in a calming breath. “It’s alright. I was just worried you were gonna hurt yerself.”

Daryl limps slightly as he walks back over. “Naw, I’m alright.”

Diane looks over at the couch and is struck with an idea. “Do you have a blanket?”

He raises an eyebrow. “For…?”

“You could put it over the couch and cover up these cuts.”

Daryl’s expression brightens a fraction and then he walks down the hallway, so Diane follows.

Daryl walks to a door at the end of the hallway and disappears inside. Diane walks to it and stops at the doorframe and finds herself looking inside a laundry room. She’s surprised to see the room doesn’t look trashed like the rest of his house. “He must ’ave not got to this room.”

Daryl is standing in front of a shelf with a pile of blankets folded up in it. “Nope.” He pulls out a blanket from the pile and heads towards the doorway. “Stopped ‘em in time, I guess.” He pulls something else from a shelf that she doesn’t catch.

Then they head back to the couch. “Help me pick up all this shit and stuff it back in the couch.” Daryl says gesturing to the stuffing scattered across the floor with his head.

Diane grabs up as much as she can hold and starts putting it back in the cushions. They end up putting most of the stuffing that was spread out across the floor into the couch and she’s pretty certain that some of it was from the chair.

She stares at the injured couch and hears a ripping sound. She looks over and sees Daryl unpeeling a roll of tape and ripping it off with his teeth. She giggles when she realizes Daryl’s intent. Daryl looks at her with a gleam in his eyes. Then he starts duck taping all the tears. When he’s satisfied that none of the stuffing would _ever_ be coming out he picks up the blanket, shaking it out and spreading it across the couch.

He steps back and puts his hands on his hips. “There. No one would ever know.”

Diane smiles. “Nope.”

They continue straightening up the room. Daryl sits on the floor as he goes through all the paper, files, and folders. It takes a while for him to get everything sorted out and by then Diane has already straightened up everything else up in the room and she finds herself sitting down on his couch.

The ruined recliner is the only thing left to deal with, so he walks over to the couch and plops down beside Diane with a groan. He pulls out his phone and looks at the time.

4:30.

Daryl sighs and shoves his phone back in his pocket and turns his head toward Diane.

“Thanks for fuckin’ helpin’ me with this shit. I know I prob’ly woulda never gotten it done if I was by myself.”

“It’s not a problem.” They sit in silence for a little while, letting their muscles relax after cleaning for about four hours.

Daryl turns his head towards her before speaking. “I think this is all I’m gonna do today. So you can go on home if ya want.”

Diane stands up and so does Daryl. “Thanks for the… water.” She laughs and Daryl laughs too, but then his smile fades and his face turns downward, towards his feet, with a frown. She hates the way he looks right now, like he’s the all alone in the world and there’s nothing he or anyone else can do to save him.

She hates it, and she wants him to know that he’s not alone. She doesn’t do anything to stop herself when her feet carry her towards him, then she wraps her arms around the man. His sharp intake of breath lets her know he’s taken by surprise by the action and she feels how he tenses up at the contact, but Diane just hugs him harder, hoping that the physical affection could lift his spirit.

“It’s gonna be alright,” she says into his chest as she rubs small circles into his tense back. She immediately notices how his ribs stick into her. His body has no give against her softer form and she realizes just how skinny he’s gotten. He was by no means ever a fat person, but when she first started getting to know him she could see that he had at least a little extra padding, nothing bad to look at, but she couldn’t say that he was the skinniest person she’s ever seen either.

“It’s gonna be alright, Little Brother,” she repeats herself and presses her face harder into his chest, hearing his heart beat calming. After a few second Daryl’s muscles relax a little as she feels him place a light grip with his hands on her shoulders. She smiles when she feels him rest his chin on the top of her head and slowly wrap his arms around her back. It lasts for a couple of seconds longer before they pull apart.

Diane pulls out her phone and calls Jon as she walks over to the window and looks out to the front yard.

“Hey.”

“ _Hey… Where’d ya go?_ ”

“I’ve been at Daryl’s helpin’ him clean up the place.”

Jon hums to himself. “ _That’s good. I’m sure he really appreciated that. I would; that place was a disaster…_ ”

“Yeah he did.” She nods. “Hey, I was thinking we could go down to the diner and have a late lunch… er early supper. However you want to look at it. We could meet there.”

“ _Sounds like a plan… Is Daryl coming?_ ”

“… I don’t know. Hold on.” She puts her phone against her chest and turns to Daryl, who’s been standing where she last saw him, watching her intently.

“Would you like to go to the diner with Jon and me?”

Daryl makes a face she doesn’t know how to interpret, something close to dread, before he shakes his head with small jerky movements.

“Naw. I’m pretty tired,” he says as he rubs his face, his voice sounding drained. “Think I’ll just stay here.”

Diane frowns at him and looks around the room and then over at the bare kitchen. “Well… what are you going to eat?” she asks with concern. If her calculations are correct, Daryl’s house has been trashed since yesterday morning, which means he hasn’t had anything to eat since… yesterday morning. And she knows that he _has_ to be hungry. While they were cleaning up, every now and then, she heard some faint rumbles that she was pretty certain were coming from Daryl’s stomach. She just pretended to not notice them because she didn’t want him feeling embarrassed.

Daryl crosses his arms and shifts his weight to one leg, “I’ll get something when I go into town later,” he responds.

“I thought you said you were tired,” she counters.

“I am. But there’s sum’m I gotta do.”

Diane sighs, letting him have this one, and puts the phone back to her ear.

“No, he’s not comin’. He says he’s tired.”

“ _Sure it’s not because he’s still pissed at me?_ ”

Diane cuts her eyes at Daryl, who’s still watching her with his arms crossed. “No… I think it’s something else…”

“ _Let me talk to him._ ”

“What?”

“ _Put Daryl on the line._ ”

Diane sighs and turns to take a couple of steps towards Daryl and stretches her arm out pointing the phone at him. “It’s for you.”

Daryl narrows his eyes at her and rolls his eyes down to look at the phone in her hand. He takes the phone after a few seconds of hesitation and puts it to his ear.

“Hello? ... Alright, I guess … No.” Daryl pauses for a while as he listens with furrowed brows. “You know why … Yeah you do … Ya remember last time.” He listens to Jon with a strained face. “Yeeah, that’s why … No, no ya ain’t gotta do that …. Look, It’s fine. Don’t wor –” Daryl stops abruptly with an annoyed look and waits before he speaks again with more conviction. “It’s fine.” Daryl sighs and rubs his face again. “Yeah, you too …. Later.”

Daryl hands back the phone with a sigh. She looks down at it and sees Daryl hung up the line. She bites her tongue about fussing at him for hanging up and puts it in her back pocket. Then she turns to Daryl.

“Alright, Daryl. You take care of yourself. I’ll see ya later.” Daryl gives her a wave and she heads out the front door and to her car.

….

Daryl watches her drive out of the driveway and disappear down the road before turning back and heading down the hallway to his bedroom. He has shit to do.

He was able to clean up some in his room before Diane got there, but it still looks like a dump. His eyes fall to the corner of his room on his gun safe. At least he knows his guns and crossbow are safe.

Daryl dresses himself with the pistols he wore to Jon’s house three days ago. He makes sure that Ida isn’t visible and then he heads out the door locking it as he goes. He wonders if there’s even a point. He still hasn’t changed the locks on the door and if he does, Daryl doesn’t see that stopping Merle from getting in if he really wants to.

He gets in his pickup truck and heads down the road. He arrives at Tommy’s house in about 15 minutes and shuts off his truck next to Tommy’s jeep. Daryl gets out quietly, leaving his truck door ajar.

He walks up the steps and just lets himself in. And right there, sitting in the living room is his 52 in. flat-screen TV playing some TV show or movie, and Merle and Tommy are sitting there on two different couches watching it.

Daryl stands there beside the front door with his hands on his hips contemplating how to approach this. He’s mildly surprised that they haven’t realized that he’s standing in the room yet.

He slowly walks up and stands between the two couches. They still don’t notice his presence.

“Nice TV,” Daryl says absentmindedly, breaking the silence. “Looks just like mine.”

Both of them jump at his unexpected voice and whip their heads towards him. Daryl looks over at Merle and feels a rush of something akin to pleasure surge through him when he sees his bruised up face, he can tell he broke his nose.

“Daryl! What the hell are you doin’ here?!” Tommy shouts over Merle’s, “Goddamn!”

Daryl fixes Tommy with a sneer. “I don’t know. What the hell is mah TV doin’ in the middle a’ ya livin’ room?!”

Tommy snaps his mouth shut, but Merle speaks up. “Nuh-uh, Daryl. Ya got it wrong. This here TV’s not yers.”

“Yeah, I just bought this a couple a’ days ago,” Tommy adds.

Daryl crosses his arms and walks closer to the TV. “Really? Prove it then – show me a receipt.”

They both stare at him and Daryl can almost see the gears turning in Merle’s head.

He turns and looks at the TV again. “‘Cause, I swear, this TV looks _exactly_ like mine…” He turns and makes eye contact with Merle. “And… I can’t find mine.”

“Daryl. I don’t know what ya thinkin’, but ther’s no way this TV’s yours. Tommy here bought this TV with his money.”

“Yeah? Why is there a note, in that terrible chicken scrawl you call hand writing, carved inta my coffee table sayin’ that you took sum’m? And I look up an’ find my TV missin’, huh? Explain that!!” Daryl waves his hands out in front of him in Merle’s direction.

Merle just shakes his head.

“You fuckin’ can’t ‘cause I caught you in a fuckin’ lie.” Daryl looks at the TV flickering images across the screen. “And I fuckin’ want my TV back.”

Merle stands from the couch and intervenes when Daryl walks closer to the TV and bumps his chest.

“No, Daryl. I got this TV fair an’ square. If ya’s so bound an’ determined to keep me outta ya shit, ya shoulda changed ya damn locks.”

Daryl’s eyebrows raise incredulously and he snorts. “Oh… so it’s fuckin’ my fault… that ya stole my TV?!”

Merle stares at him hard and then nods. “Yeah.”

Daryl’s eyebrows furrow and his earlier look transforms into one of irritation. “Man… you’re so full a’ shit!” Daryl charges towards the TV, completely intent on unplugging the damn thing and carrying it out to his truck, but Merle slams a heavy arm against Daryl’s chest and holds it there.

“I fuckin’ mean it, Daryl. This TV’s _mine_ … whether it _was_ yers or not,” Merle says lowly in Daryl’s face, and Daryl catches the underlying threat in his words that would go unheard by any with untrained ears. Daryl stares at Merle, blue eyes piercing into grey, neither of them yielding.

Daryl sneers at his brother in disdain. He would rather not come to blows with Merle because he’s already caused himself enough damage, the last thing he needs is another trip to the ER; but Merle is seriously pissing him off, enough to the point where he can feel his body beginning to shake.

Daryl roughly pushes Merle’s off of his chest with a growl and continues his walk to the TV. He doesn’t get very far when he’s suddenly slammed against the wall, with Merle fisting the collar of his shirt, his own face getting red.

“I don’t think ya _hearin’_ me, boy. Think I’m gonna have ta teach ya a lesson,” Merle threatens.

Daryl’s breath hitches in his chest at his words. _Think I’m gonna have ta teach ya a lesson._ They resonate in his head as they fade into his daddy’s condescending voice. Daryl’s heart slams into his throat as he’s vividly sent back to all the blood drawing beatings, all the times locked up in a cold, dark, and damp room to be left alone until someone actually remembers he exists. He can even hear the cackles of his dead father laughing at his expense, sending shivers down his spine. He’s sent back by scary similarities of Merle’s statement to their daddy. In fact, every way Merle is being is strikingly similar to the way their daddy would handle things. And it doesn’t sit well with Daryl; it stirs up old feelings.

Daryl doesn’t realize he’s done it until he sees Merle on the floor, actually he still doesn’t know what he did. He hears himself yelling. He can’t even focus on his own words; his mind is foggy and switching back and forth from reality and past. He thinks he’s yelling at Merle about being exactly like him.

He’s knocked back into cognizance with a jolt when he feels his face collide into glass, and shards pierce into his cheek bone and the side of his face. He quickly looks around himself and realizes that he’d been thrown into a glass shelf and is now lying in a heap of glass, and whatever junk was on the shelf, on the carpet. He looks up in time to see Merle grab his shirt and yank him up from the floor and get in his face.

“You fuckin’ take that back, you piece of _shit_.”

Daryl rips himself from Merle’s grasp. “Ya know what?!! _FUCK!! YOU!!_ Fuck you and all yer shit!” He pushes Merle’s chest angrily. “An’ I _ain’t_ takin shit back!! Especially shit that’s _true_!!” Daryl growls.

Merle growls and throws a punch that hits the bloody and glass pierced side of Daryl’s jaw. Daryl stumbles back and presses a hand against it in reaction to the pain, bending over slightly. He sees Merle coming in for another blow from the corner of his eye, but moves out of the way in time and jabs Merle in the rib with his left hand, pushing him away.

“I’m fuckin’ ashamed to call you my brother,” Daryl says roughly, sounding out of breath. “I’m fuckin’ ashamed to carry the last name _Dixon_ ,” he says. “If I could fuckin’ disown you as a brother… I fuckin’ _would!!_ If you died tomorrow… I don’t think I’d even care.”

This gets Merle’s attention and he scowls at Daryl. “Yeah, well if you went _missin’_ I wouldn’t give a shit,” Merle yells.

Daryl stares at Merle, his eyes filled with hatred and then his gaze flips to the TV still flashing images.

“If ya want my TV so Goddamn bad…” He pulls out Ida and begins firing bullets into the screen, the first bullet piercing the screen, cutting off the colored image into complete darkness as he continues firing bullets into each corner and then several in the middle. He looks back up at Merle who’s gawking at him, eyes wide. “….There, you can fuckin’ have it.”

He slides Ida back in her holster with shaky hands and turns to limp out. On his way out he catches a glimpse of Tommy peeking at him from behind one of the couches, face pale.

_Fuckin’ Pussy._

No one says another word to him as he makes his way out the door and into his truck, where he heads towards home. There’s no fuckin’ way he’s going to go to town with glass sticking out of his skin and blood pouring down his face. But it’s not like was planning on that anyway.

 


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Daryl barely makes it down the road two miles before he has to pull over on the side of the road. Apparently the glass got him much worse than he first figured. Blood is everywhere. It’s dripping down into his seat and onto the floorboard. The pool of blood collecting around him and the sharp, stinging pain along the left side of his body and hands lets him know how wrong his assumption was.

His head swims as he sits there in his truck. At this rate, there’s no way he would be able to make it home… or even the hospital. Daryl reaches around to his back pocket with his right arm and pulls out his wallet. He grimaces at the blood seeping into the bottom of it as he opens it. He pulls out a card and throws his wallet down onto the bench beside him. He pulls out his phone and concentrates hard through his fuzzy vision and dials the number on the card.

“ _Hello?_ ”

“Hey, um… Doc…?”

“ _Who is this?_ ”

Daryl swallows audibly, loud enough for the person on the other end to hear. “It’s uh, Daryl… Dixon.”

“ _What is it, son?_ ” Hershel asks, his voice filled with concern.

Daryl looks down at his side, soggy with his blood, and swallows again. His mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton.

“I need some help with some stitches, man. I’m bleedin’ pretty bad.” His voice comes out more ragged than he would have liked, but he’s suddenly finding it hard to get enough oxygen even though he’s breathing in as deep as he can.

“ _Where are you now?_ ” Hershel asks quickly.

“I’m parked in mah truck….” he pauses to catch his breath, “on the side a’ Cecile Road about fifteen miles west a’ –” Daryl chokes for a second and swallows, “Butler Hill.”

“That’s not far from my farm; do you think you can drive?”

Daryl shakes his head in an attempt to clear his vision. “I think so…” he rasps, “I’m facing Butler Hill. Which way?”

“It’s the other direction, but my driveway is about five miles from your spot. Just look for the big green mailbox that says Greene, with an ‘e’ at the end, at the end of a dirt road.”

Daryl nods his head even though Hershel can’t see him. He starts his truck.

“Stay on the line, son. I’d be terrible for you to wreck on your way to my place and me not know.”

Daryl grunts and puts his phone on speaker phone and sets it down beside his leg. He makes a u-turn and heads back the way he just came, concentrating hard on keeping his truck on the road.

There are a few times he almost lets his truck run off into the ditch, but he corrects himself in the nick of time. He speeds past Tommy’s house, gritting his teeth, and almost runs off the road again when he hits a sharp turn. Daryl curses to himself in all the excitement, which results in Hershel asking if he’s alright. He just grunts in confirmation. He really shouldn’t be driving, though. He can’t even see straight.

Eventually he sees the green mailbox and begins to feel the motivation to keep himself going kick back up, and almost smiles to himself.

“Ahrigh’,” he breathes out, “I’m drivin’ down ya driveway.”

“ _Good… almost there._ ”

His motivation fades, though, when the dirt road keeps stretching on for what seems like miles and his condition only continues to deteriorate.

“Why the hell ya driveway gotta be so fuckin’ long, huh?” he huffs out, breathing harder in an attempt to keep his nausea at bay, but he’s failing. His vision clouds over with the production of tears as his insides begin to churn violently, an intense heat overcoming his insides, making him him break out into a cold sweat.

“ _You should almost be there._ ”

He barely hears him as he slams on the breaks and throws his door open and lets the bile spew out of his mouth. He retches noisily what liquid he had in his stomach and groans at his over worked stomach and from the pain as he twists the skin around the glass. He heaves a few more times before he leans back up and slams his door shut, breathing hard. That didn’t make him feel any better in the slightest.

Hershel’s voice breaks his mental fog and pulls him out.

“ _Stay with me, Daryl. You’re almost there._ ”

Daryl wipes his mouth with his the back of his hand and smears blood onto it. He squares his jaw and forces himself to continue driving down the road.

He breathes a shaky sigh of relief when he finally sees the two story house in the distance and speeds toward it. He sees Hershel standing on the porch as he drives up; he parks the truck quickly and shuts it off. He throws the door open, nearly falling on his face when he puts his weight on his leg, but Hershel is suddenly there keeping him steady. He hears Hershel saying something, but it’s muffled by the magnified pounding swoosh sound in his ears.

He feels himself stumbling up some steps and into the house. His world is slowly fading to black and he feels cold prickles all over his skin, making him shiver. He feels himself beginning to lean and his legs give out before he’s slammed into complete darkness.

…

Hershel watches as Daryl drives and parks close to the porch. He walks closer to the driver’s side. He doesn’t actually get a good look at Daryl until he opens his door and takes a step on the ground. He blanches when he sees how horrible he looks. His skin is ghostly pale with bright crimson soaking in his bangs and then whole left side of his body. He does a double take when he sees the glass sticking out of his skin. _What has this man gotten himself into?_

He reaches out quickly when Daryl’s legs fail at holding him upright and he grabs his right arm and puts it over his shoulder to keep him from falling. He asks him what happened, but he doesn’t respond. Annette’s in the house stripping the guest room’s bed and getting it ready for Daryl when he gets his stitches, but he didn’t realize Daryl would be this bad or he might have recommended him going to the hospital.

They make their way up the porch step, Daryl stumbling along. He can tell he’s barely hanging on to consciousness.

“Annette, do you have everything ready?”

“Yeah,” he hears from the guest.

He walks Daryl into the house and feels him beginning to lean and Hershel finds himself scrambling to catch the man before he slams into the floor. He catches him, with Daryl’s upper half hanging two feet from the floor. And then he finds himself in a predicament. He could lift Daryl by himself, but he doesn’t want to aggravate his wounds, and he definitely doesn’t want to drag him across the floor either.

“Annette… Anne, could you come and help me?”

Annette comes out of the hallway and puts a hand over mouth when she sees the man dangling from Hershel’s grasp.

“What happened to him?!”

“I don’t know, but he needs our help. Help me carry him to the room. Lift him from under his arm.”

Together they carry him to the guest room and lay him on the bed. Hershel takes a step back and analyzes the situation. He sees the large shard of glass sticking out of his thigh through his pants, where he’s still heavily bleeding, and decides the first thing he needs to do is cut the wound shard free.

He lifts Daryl’s shirt enough to see his belt buckle and furrows his brows when he sees the gun holster hidden on the inside of his waistband complete with the gun.

He pulls out the holster with the gun and notices almost immediately the residual tang of smokeless gunpowder coming from the barrel and blood on the grip. So he infers that it was recently used, but after he was cut by the glass.

He hands it over to Annette who looks at it with big eyes before laying it on the dresser by the door. He undoes Daryl’s belt and slides it out of the loops and drops it over to the side. He asks Annette to take Daryl’s boots off after he asks for the scissors and gets to work cutting off Daryl’s pants, seeing a few scars but not thinking much of it. When he gets the top part cut he pulls them out from underneath him and hands off the bloody pants over to Annette to put somewhere and starts unbuttoning Daryl’s shirt

As he unbuttons Daryl’s shirt he gets a better view of what he got a quick glimpse of before. He puts on his professional mask, but on the inside he feels himself ache at the thought of another human being doing something like this to someone else… on purpose. He doesn’t know much about Daryl’s personal life, but he has a pretty good idea where the scars came from. With the way the marks are whelped up in straight lines across his chest and belly he has a pretty good indication of what caused it as well as who caused it.

It makes Hershel grateful that when his own father was upset about one thing or another he was one who preferred fighting with his words rather than with his actions.

Hershel looks at the marks feeling upset. But what upsets him the most out of all the markings is the harsh indented line of skin stretching across his belly. He can tell by the way the skin grew back together that it was from a knife… or something with a sharp edge. And it wasn’t from someone just slinging a knife in his direction, like during a knife fight. The cut was precise and deliberate so the person would have had to been standing over him, maybe even holding him down. He can tell by the roughness of the mark that stitches were not a part of the healing process for this and he knows it was probably _hell_ to get over.

He always knew that Will wasn’t right in the head; he would even go as far to say he was crazy, but this? This makes him feel sick. What gets Hershel is how well Will was able to hide it, he knew he was a wild card, but this he would have never even guessed. And now he knows 21 some odd years later after the man’s death and there’s not a damn thing he can do about. It makes him want to go spit on the man’s grave.

Hershel shakes his head, frowning. If everyone even had the _slightest_ idea of what he went through at home, they might have a better understanding of the way the youngest Dixon is the way he is. _Oh the injustice of it all. Kid gets abused at home and turns around and gets bullied by everyone else because he’s different. And the way he’s treated makes him different. They never look any further into why. They’d rather just sit around in groups gossiping and make up their own stories._

He finishes cutting his shirt off completely and sees Annette reach out to touch that very scar. He turns and shakes his head at her and she retracts her hand, looking at Hershel with sad eyes. He shakes his head again. It’s bad enough that they’re both openly staring at his scars, which, going by his little display of modesty in his hospital room, he goes to great measure to try and hide, but touching them without a legitimate reason seems like it would be crossing a line. Besides, they need to get back to work. Hershel doesn’t think Daryl would be very happy if he woke up and saw them both staring at him in such an undressed state.

He puts on some gloves and looks down at Daryl’s bleeding thigh, examining the large shard of glass, purposefully avoiding any scars that might be there. He gets the tweezers and a rag ready as he carefully pulls out the shard. He whistles to himself when he sees the shard is about an inch and a half wide and about two and a half long. He lays the piece of glass in a pan that Annette holds out for him, since she’s pulling out smaller shards from his arm and face with her own set of tweezers. A new burst of blood flows out of the wound and Hershel presses down hard with the rag.

He eases up on the pressure when the blood flow slows enough to where he can manage to start suturing the wound. He wipes antiseptic over the wound with gauze and cleans and cleans the area and cleans it out with saline. Satisfied the area is sterile, he begins suturing from the middle of the laceration and works his way out. It ends up being four stitches when he’s satisfied the sutures will hold the wound closed. He glances in Annette direction, who’s still taking small pieces of glass out of him.

“He’s got some in his hair, I think,” Annette says.

“Are they bad?” Hershel asks as he pulls out the smaller pieces of glass stuck in the skin of his leg.

“I don’t think so… just kinda stuck in his skin.”

“Poor thing… he’s gonna be in so much pain,” he hears Annette continue as he wraps medical tape around Daryl’s thigh.

“It’s a wonder he made it as far as he did before passing out,” she continues.

Hershel makes a noise in the back of his throat. “I’ve always heard that the Dixons were a tough breed. This pretty much proves it. Although I don’t think it was from pain as much as it was blood loss.”

He finishes wrapping Daryl’s leg and looks over to examines his ribs. There’s one long slash on the upper part of his ribs that stretches around to his back along with smaller glass shards piercing the area. He works in getting the glass out and then cleans the area. He sucks air through his teeth when he looks at the slash. This one is going to be annoying to deal with; it’ll constantly get tugged and stretched when he moves, not to mention it will be painful for him to stitch. And it’s because of this he’s glad Daryl’s passed out right now. As he gets ready to stitch up the cut he can’t help but notice how defined his ribs are under the skin, it’s not going to help him any when he stitches it.

Fifteen stitches later he bandages it and moves his attention to Daryl’s arm, which Annette is holding to keep out of the way and rid of any pieces of glass. He takes Daryl’s arm from her and she moves her attention to his head.

He sliced it up pretty good, his bicep’s not so bad, but his forearm…. Whatever glass he fell on, all of his weight must have been bearing down at that one point because the gash is deep. It starts at the top of his forearm and curves under his arm close to his elbow. He sutures that part of the gash close to his elbow giving it five stitches. He leaves the rest of the cuts as they are because they aren’t in any need of suture reinforcement and wraps a bandage around his arm to keep them clean.

He joins his wife at Daryl’s head and examines the lacerations on the side of his face. He has to move his bangs out of the way to get a good look. They’re nothing too serious, but they still look pretty painful.

Among the several little punctures from tiny shards that have pierced his skin he has a cut on his upper lip stretching up at an angle to just the outside of his goatee; another one on his forehead above his eyebrow; and one curving up the contours of his cheekbone almost reaching to the top of his ear. He double checks to make sure he has no leftover pieces of glass before he wipes the cuts clean with antiseptic and bandages the cuts on his cheek and forehead.

He examines Daryl’s hands last. He unwraps the tape on his right hand he put on yesterday because it’s ruined, soaked with blood, and disposes it before looking for injuries. The cuts carved into his palm give him the visual image of Daryl pushing himself up with his palms from a bed of broken glass. They aren’t terribly bad cuts, they don’t need stitches. They’re probably just painful enough to be annoying. He finishes up by cleaning them and wrapping medical tape around his palm.

He stands back and admires his handy work with Annette standing beside him. That’s when he’s struck with the realization that Daryl has no clothes to wear out of here. And he’s certainly not going to make him walk out of here in just his boxers. That would be cruel. He looks over to Annette.

“Do you think he would fit in some of my old clothes?”

Annette looks down at Daryl and puts a hand to her chin in thought, “I don’t know, he’s pretty thin, but it’s not like it’ll hurt if it’s a little loose.”

Annette goes to get some clothes and Hershel looks back at Daryl. He notices the stitches above his left collarbone. Hershel scratches his chin, trying to imagine what Daryl must go through to keep ending up with all these injuries.

A few minutes later Annette shows back up with a long sleeved flannel shirt and some blue jeans.

“Let’s go ahead and put the shirt on him, so when he wakes up he’ll at least have something covering…” Hershel trails off, but Annette gets his meaning.

Together they work on putting on the long sleeve shirt behind him and get his arms pulled through the sleeves. And Annette buttons up the shirt.

Not three seconds after buttoning the last button Daryl moans and raises a hand to wrap around his side. He opens his eyes with something of a jolt when he puts pressure on the stitched up gash.

“Sunova _bitch!”_ he mutters loudly into the air.

Hershel frowns at him.

“Language, son,” he reprimands.

Daryl rolls his eyes over to where Hershel is standing as though he didn’t even know someone else was in the room. Then his eyes roll over to his wife, with a calculating stare.

“We have some pants you can put on,” Hershel points out, making Daryl’s eyes snap back to him before looking down at his bare legs with a frown.

Hershel looks to his wife and tells her that she doesn’t have to stick around, and she doesn’t. She leaves so she can get supper finished up.

Hershel hands him the pants which he takes without question. Daryl goes to sit up and grunts as the stitches on his ribs stretch. Hershel reaches out to offer assistance, but Daryl bats his hand away.

Daryl stands carefully, mindful of his stitched thigh as he steps into the blue jeans. When Daryl gets the pants on he’s surprised to find that they actually aren’t that bad of a fit. He was skinnier than he thought back in the day… not so much anymore, though.

“My belt?”

Hershel looks back to him and remembers that he haphazardly dropped it off to the side. He retrieves the belt which had some blood dried on the left side and handed it over to him.

“Would you mind telling what happened?” he asks as Daryl pulls the belt through the loops and buckles it, unconcerned with the red coloring it.

Daryl sighs and gingerly sits back down on the bed.

“Well I think ya already know I had an encounter with glass.” Hershel nods. Yes, he’s been made known of that fact. Daryl groans. “My brother pushed me inta a damn glass shelf.”

Hershel studies him before slowly asking, “how did that come about?”

Daryl makes a tired expression and runs his fingers through his hair and yanks his hand back when he rakes it across where the glass was. He sits himself back, so that he’s leaning against the headboard and looks up at Hershel. “My brother trashed my house yesterday, ya see? I mean jus’… completely turned the place upside down. Then I went to the hospital…” Daryl stops talking and eyes him with a look that basically says what he didn’t finish saying. Hershel nods his understanding.

“When I got back home, I realized he stole my TV. So today… I went to where he’s stayin’ to get my TV back. We end up arguing and he gets mad and shoves me into a glass shelf. At this point I realize gettin’ my TV’s a lost cause and end up shooting the fuckin’ thing so I can leave with the peace of mind that he can’t use my shit neither.”

Hershel leans back on his heels. He tries to contain the amused smirk that tries to form on his face because even though what he did contained some humor, the situation ended up with Daryl bleeding to the point of passing out.

He frowns now finding all humor gone from the situation. “I think maybe it’d be a good idea if you stayed away from your brother.”

Daryl scoffs, squinting his eyes at him. “Yeah, that’s the plan.”

Hershel sees Daryl look down, with a long expression taking over his face, and then he sighs. “I’m sorry for… ya know… bleeding on ya bed.”

“Oh no, don’t worry about it, we put a protective covering under that sheet, so it’s good. I’m just glad it wasn’t worse that it was, although I did have to put in some stitches. You had a really deep gash in your thigh that I stitched up, so you need to take it easy on that. You also have stitches on your forearm. But what I’m most concerned about are the stitches on your ribs. You really need to be careful with those. No strenuous activities, no heavy lifting… no running… or you’ll risk popping the stitches and then you’ll be in trouble.”

Daryl frowns at him.

“Now I took off the wrap for your knuckle, but you need to be careful with it too, it’s not completely healed,” he reminds Daryl, who lifts up his right hand and moves his fingers back in forth, most likely testing their flexibility.

Then Hershel remembers the stitches above his collarbone. “I noticed that you already had some stitches that look a few days old. Do you mind me asking what they’re from?”

Daryl looks up at the ceiling and makes a sound similar to a groan as he rubs the back of his neck. “Ahh.. Someone broke into my house and they threw a knife at me.”

Hershel frowns with wide eyes. He wasn’t expecting that answer. “Did you call the police?”

Daryl makes a face, “They know about it.”

“Did they catch who did it?” Hershel asks slowly, unsure if the police are actually doing anything about it.

The face Daryl makes only becomes more intense as he shakes his head. “No.”

Hershel presses his lips together in a tight line and nods. They fall into a silence that stretches on for seconds and Hershel leans himself against the dresser.

“Hey, thank you by the way,” Daryl’s quiet voice breaks the silence, gesturing towards the stitch work.

“It’s no problem. I guess I’d rather you come here for me to fix you up than have you bleed out on the side of the road… or worse.”

Daryl frowns and nods his head. “Yeah…” Daryl begins to chew his thumb, looking like he wants to say something, but seems hesitant. Eventually he gets it out. “If ya ever have any… electrical problems, need sum’m wired up, jus’ give me a call, an’ I’ll do it for ya.”

Hershel raises his eyebrows at the offer, surprised. “Well, that’s mighty kind of you.”

Daryl scoffs bitterly and rolls his eyes. “Yeah? Well don’t tell no one, it might ruin my reputation…. So we got a deal?”

“Yeah, I’d say we do.”

A corner of Daryl’s mouth lifts up a little at the agreement. Hershel can tell the smile isn’t all that sincere; it doesn’t reach his eyes, and seems too forced. However, the smile doesn’t last long because almost as soon as he turns up to look at Hershel, his lips quirked up, his stomach growls voraciously, filling the whole room with the loud sound.

Daryl goes rigid and looks away quickly. He can see the beginning of red creeping up his neck and into his face, contrasting a great deal from the paleness of his skin. After Hershel gets over his initial shock he frowns at Daryl’s reaction and ponders it for a moment.

Hershel clears his throat to get his attention, but Daryl doesn’t respond, just keeps looking away, slightly shaking.

“Daryl,” he calls aloud.

Daryl looks up slowly, like he’s afraid of what he’ll see, with a weird expression plastered across his face.

“We have supper cooking right now. We can fix you a plate if you’re hungry.”

Daryl’s look changes to one of guilt mixed with shame as his face gets even redder. He shakes his head somewhat hastily.

“No, no... you don’ hafta do that. I’m fine,” he says, folding his hands on top of his stomach somewhat anxiously.

Hershel furrows his brows at him, questioning his reluctance with a slight shake off his head. _No. That won’t do._

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you a plate when suppers ready and I’ll let you decide what to do with it. You need to eat something, though, because you just lost a lot of blood and that will help you replenish it.” Hershel nods his head as he says it. Daryl looks like he’s considering it even though regardless of his decision, Hershel’s giving him food anyway.

After a few seconds, with the weird expression back in place, he gives a small nod.

“M’kay.”

Hershel nods again and begins to head toward the door. “The belongings from your pockets are on the dresser here.” He places a hand on top of the dresser as he walks out of the room.

…

Daryl looks over at the dresser when Hershel walks out. He still feels the remnants of his embarrassment weighing heavy in his gut, but he tries to shove it down and out of his mind. He’s not sure what he feels more embarrassed about: the fact that happened in front of him or the way he reacted… even though he couldn’t control it. He was blindsided with the sudden rush of feelings and memories again that keep popping in his head. And it made him want to hide under the fuckin’ bed.   It both angers and embarrasses him that he can’t get control of himself. And the way he felt from the memories bled through into his current situation and no doubt aroused suspicion in Hershel. He’s just hoping that Hershel won’t want to push the subject; he’s not prepared for the unwelcomed feelings he’d be digging up and have to deal with if he does.

Daryl sighs and looks down at his folded hands, feeling dejected. If he’s going to be honest, he feels like absolute utter _shit_. All his cuts are throbbing with a continuous sharp pain. He has a splitting headache that spikes in pain anytime he moves his head too fast. He feels really lethargic, like the smallest of actions would easily tire him out. And on top of that his stomach feels terrible. His lack of eating is unsurprisingly catching up with him, making him feel dizzy and nauseous with a hollow feeling in his stomach that’s cramping something awful. He holds a hand over his belly when he feels it start rumbling again, his stress mounting up all over again. He repeatedly reminds himself that _‘it’s nothing to fuckin’ worry about… not anymore.’_

He shakes his head, pushing it all down, and slowly inches his way towards the edge of the bed, feeling the stitches on his ribs and leg stretch as he goes. He eases himself down to the floor and cringes at the stabbing pain that shoots through his leg as he puts his weight on it.

No. No, he definitely doesn’t see himself running any time soon in the near future.

Daryl sucks in a breath and limps his way over to the dresser and scowls at the sight of blood smeared on his .45. He collects all his belongings in his hands and makes his way back to the bed and plops himself down on it, regretting it immediately when he jars his ribs. When the pain dies down to a dull throb he looks around the room for something to wipe the blood with. He ends up choosing the decorative handkerchief lying on the bedside table and yanks it up.

He takes Ida out of the holster and starts scrubbing off the blood on the handle. He feels a twinge of annoyance when he realizes some of the blood’s dried to it and the rag won’t get it all off. He ends up spitting on it to get more to come off.

When he’s satisfied that he gets off all the blood that he’s able, he reaches over in the pile of stuff and grabs the two clips he kept in his left leg pocket. They ended up getting marinated in his blood when the gash in his thigh bled down his leg and are covered with it.

He figures these will need a much more thorough cleaning because it’s all on the inside in-between the bullets, but he wipes the outside just so he can keep himself busy and distracted himself from all his discomforts.

He’s almost finished with the second clip when a young girl with blonde hair comes through the doorway carrying a plate of food in one hand and a drink in the other. She looks a lot like the woman from earlier but much younger, so he assumes she must be Hershel’s daughter.

She stops quickly when she sees him messing around with his gun paraphernalia. She looks at the stuff for a moment before looking up to meet Daryl’s gaze. And much to Daryl’s chagrin, his stomach decides to choose that exact moment to start growling angrily, with the ferocity of it startling the poor girl and making him flinch.

Daryl slouches in on himself slightly, sucking in his gut, and scowls down at his work, wiping the clips with excessive force; as he does his best to control the blush he knows is burning his face… or convince himself that didn’t just happen… again.

He sees the girl take uncertain steps forward in his peripheral vision. He doesn’t blame her, though. He probably looks like some dangerous, hungry, abused dog, ready to snap at anyone willing to get close enough to feed it. Hell, that’s almost _exactly_ how he feels.

The girl stops a couple of feet away. He stops scrubbing his clip and looks at her through his eyebrows.

“I brought you some food,” she says quietly in a shy tone as she moves the plate closer to him, more or less imploring that he take the plate from her hand. He stares at her a few seconds longer before he puts the clips aside and sits up to face the girl properly. He lets out a tired sigh and takes the plate and glass from the girl, whose face relaxes. She almost looked as stressed out as he does right now. Then the girl turns to leave the room after giving him a shy smile that he returns with a scowl.

Daryl drinks down half of the sweet tea and smacks his lips at the sweet taste, then sets it down on the bedside table and looks down at the plate on his lap, glowering. The plate consists of baked chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, and a roll. Something like this would normally look divine to him, but here lately the thought of eating _anything_ fills him with disgust.

He picks up the roll and glares at it as though that would solve all his problems, as though it would actually give him the desire to eat. Eventually he just forces himself to take a bite of the roll. Daryl grimaces as the normally buttery sweet flavor associated with it is replaced by a dull, pasty taste that overwhelms his mouth and makes it hard for him to swallow. He forces himself to take another bite and groans with distaste. He ends up eating a few bites of everything else on the plate before he can’t take it anymore and puts it on the bedside table. He drinks the rest of his tea and feels the cool liquid settle in his stomach.

He sits there on the edge of the bed and contemplates on if he’s supposed to just leave the plate there or if he’s suppose to bring it to kitchen or what. He eventually decides on just leaving it. He’s ready to get out of here.

He slides Ida into his waistband and pulls his shirt over it. He shoves his .380 and extra clips into his pockets. He looks around for his wallet and feels his heart rate speed up as he begins to panic until it finally clicks in his mind that he dropped it on the passenger seat when he called Hershel’s number. That reminds him that he left his phone in the truck too. He yanks up the bloody handkerchief and shoves it in his back pocket. _Hershel probably won’t want this back._

He stands up and grabs his boots and stiffly puts them back on, gritting his teeth at the tugging on his ribs. Afterwards he grabs his pack of cigarettes and lighter, and glances around the room to make sure he’s not forgetting anything. He limps out of the bedroom and down the hallway. He finds himself looking in the kitchen as he reaches the end of the hallway. He sees them sitting around the dinner table eating supper carrying on some type of conversation. The table falls silent when they see him standing there and they turn to look at him with slightly questioning eyes.

He waves his pack of cigarettes in the air and keeps onward until he reaches the front door, feeling them watching his every step.

He walks out onto the porch and breathes out a sigh and leans against the railing as he shakes out a cigarette and lights it up. He takes note of how low he’s getting and decides that he’ll need to get more soon.

The sky is just getting dark and the crickets songs fill his ears. He stands there feeling the autumn air as the cool wind blows the hair making it tickle his face, and the with sun disappearing behind the arisen, the colors, all bring back things from the past and he feels a strong wave of depression hit him. Daryl lets his eyes settle on the grassy fields, perpetually waving in the wind as his mind travels back.

He hears the sound of a storm door fall closed that knocks him from his reminiscence and he turns slightly to look behind him and sees Hershel walking toward him. Daryl turns back to the fields and stares blankly, letting his eyes go unfocused. He senses Hershel’s presence when he joins him at the rail.

“You feeling okay?” Hershel asks.

Daryl shrugs, silently taking note of how the action stretched the skin of his ribs. He makes a humming sound and silence falls between with the exception of the ambient sound of crickets… and one _really_ close to them.

Daryl heaves a long sigh and snubs his cigarette out and puts it back in his pack for later and then puts the pack in his pocket. He turns to Hershel, putting his hands in his pockets. “Thank ya again for helpin’ me. Not many people would go out of their way to help somebody like that… let alone someone like me.”

Daryl offers him a hand and Hershel shakes it without hesitation. He ignores the stinging in his hand as Hershel shakes it, and nods at him when he sees Hershel smile.

“Well, I need to get home…” He turns and begins limping to the steps and waves a hand in the air. “Later.”

He hears Hershel’s quiet response and he makes his way to his truck. He scowls when he opens his truck door and sees the blood dried on the driver’s seat. He reaches out and wipes a finger across it and discovers that it’s not completely dried, but congealed. His lips curl up in disgust.

He looks around in his truck for anything he could lay on the seat. He sees the empty corn feed sack on the floorboard on the passenger side and pulls it over to his seat. _It’s as good as anything else,_ he shrugs.

He positions it over the bench and steps in, stifling a groan. His phone and wallet are right where he left them. He pulls his .380 out, putting it in the glove compartment, and puts his phone in its place and his wallet in his back pocket. And starts up the truck and heads out.

…

Hershel watches as Daryl drives out and turns to go back inside, concern clear on his face as he sits back at the dinner table.

It’s obvious to see there’s something bothering the man. If Hershel were to guess he’d say that he’s probably dealing with some personal demons coming back to haunt him. But a little bit might have to do with his brother. But he’s leaning more toward the first.

“Is he okay, Daddy?” his youngest daughter asks, jerking him from his thoughts.

“I don’t know, Bethy.”

He thinks back to how Daryl responded to him hearing his stomach growl. Something about it really bothered him. Daryl was embarrassed, but Hershel understands that. He would be embarrassed too if that happened to him right in front of someone. No, that wasn’t what struck Hershel odd. When it happened it’s almost like he shut down, as though he was waiting for something to happen. And the weird expression that went along with it makes him curious. But when Hershel confronted him about giving him food if he was hungry, he looked guilty. But _why_ would he look guilty about that? Who’s been telling him that he shouldn’t be hungry… or that it’s wrong? Why?

He thinks on it as he chews his food. Then he’s slapped in the face with memory of the scar across his belly. And just like that, he doesn’t feel like eating anymore and starts feeling sick. He doesn’t know the details of what went down when that happened, he’s not sure he _wants_ to, but he bets everything he has that they have something to do with one another.

He excuses himself from the table and walks to the room Daryl was in and checks the plate. He walks into the room and turns to the right to go to where he figures he would put his plate and sees the hardly touched food still sitting there. Hershel furrows his brows and frowns. He’s definitely more than certain.

….

Daryl pulls into The Hurry Back and parks his truck on the edge of the parking lot. Shutting his truck off, he sits there and finishes the rest of his cigarette. He flicks the butt out the window and thrusts the door open.

The smell of exhaust and muted gasoline overcomes his senses as he shuts the door. The parking lot is empty except for one person getting gas and a couple of other vehicles parked over to the side.

He shakes his head and sucks in a breath, willing himself to gain energy that he’s lacking, and slightly limps his way to the entrance.

He steps inside, into the cool conditioned air and scowls at the cashier when he makes a face at Daryl. He realizes his appearance is probably questionable and induces suspicion, but he doesn’t give a shit. He walks down the aisle to the cooler and picks up a twelve pack of Budweiser. He lets the door fall closed with a sucking smack and moves along the cooler to the section with 20 oz beverages and snags himself a coke.

The added weight in his right hand adds to the strain in his ribs and legs, so he’s using extra forces to keep himself from limping, even though it feels as though he’s getting cut all over again, which probably makes him look meaner than he actually feels.

He walks up to the counter and sets the beer down with a huff and sets the coke down beside it. He looks up into the cashier’s face with an unfriendly frown. If he wasn’t in such a bad mood he might have found amusement in the fact that the guy is staring at him like he just walked away from the scene of a crime he just committed and fears Daryl might do something to him if he says the wrong thing.

“Gimme three packs a’ Parliament,” Daryl mutters, gesturing to where they keep their cigarettes. He looks at the guy’s name tag that says ‘Chad’ and then looks back at the guys face, who’s still staring at him with a barely concealed level of fear on his face. “Ya gonna fuckin’ jus’ stand there?”

Chad shakes his head quickly and walks quickly to the shelf of cigarettes and gets him the packs and comes back to the counter and looks up at Daryl like he might gut him where he stands if he talks too much. “Is that all for ya?”

Daryl just grunts and watches as Chad scans everything and then looks up at Daryl like he wants to ask him a question, but is holding back with a level of uncertainty.

Daryl gives him an impatient sigh. “What?”

Chad looks caught off guard and shakes his head. “I was jus’ wondering if ya wanted a bag for this?” He gestures to the coke and packs of cigarettes.

Daryl makes an annoyed face and shrugs.

“I don’t care,” he says, his voice laced with impatience.

Daryl feels eyes burning into the back of his head and looks around to see the only other person in the store watching him. They look around the store quickly, pretending they were just examining their surroundings, but Daryl’s not fooled. He huffs and turns back to Chad.

Chad scrambles to puts his stuff in a bag and tells him the price. Daryl pulls out his wallet and pulls out the appropriate amount of money and hands it over to the guy.

Chad’s eyes widen and he chokes on his breath when he sees the blood staining the bills and he looks up at Daryl with a look of such apprehension Daryl’s convinced that he actually believes that he just got through murdering someone and stole their money afterwards just for the hell of it. He almost feels amusement well up in his chest, but his annoyance overshadows it when the guy just stands there leaving Daryl holding the money between his fingers out towards him, waiting.

He shakes the money at the guy, furrowing his eyebrows irritably.

“Ya gonna take this or not?” he growls.

He’s tired. He’s in pain. And he wants to get home to go to fuckin’ bed. He doesn’t have the patience for this bullshit.

The guy swallows quickly and takes the money with wide eyes, purposefully avoiding the blood, and counts it. He punches in a number in the cash register and it spits out the receipt. He hesitantly hands him the change with the receipt, carefully avoiding Daryl’s touch as though it would kill him instantly if he came in contact with his skin.

Daryl shoves the money in his pocket and yanks the bag up in his left hand and the twelve pack in his right and limps out, catching bits and pieces of the hushed whispers of the cashier and the other costumer.

“….crawled up his ass?” “I don’t know. I…kill me.… see…blood?” “.… his dad ya know?”

He growls out and turns on his heels facing the gossipers, giving them a death glare. He’s sure he probably _looks_ like death. They stop talking and stare at him with wide eyes. Daryl turns back to the door with a huff and hits the door furiously with his left hand, making the door swing open quickly. He begins regretting his display of anger when he gets to the truck because of the painful throb in his stitched forearm.

He sets the 12 pack in the back with a heave and gets in his truck, throwing the bag on the bench beside him.

…

It didn’t seem like he could get home fast enough. He pulls his truck up beside his work truck and gets out with the bag and his keys in the same hand. He walks around and gets the beer from the bed and walks around his work truck to head in his house. He stops in mid step when he notices his truck tilting dramatically to one side.

_Well, shit._

He’ll have to deal with that shit in the morning, though, because he feels like he could pass out on the floor at this very moment.

He walks through the door and breaths somewhat of a sigh of relief when he isn’t greeted with the mess he half expected to see again and locks the door behind him. He puts his beer and coke in the fridge and takes his packs of cigarettes with him to his room. He chunks them on his bedside table and plops on top of his bed not even bothering to undress.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Daryl is extremely frustrated by the time morning comes. He didn’t sleep worth shit.

Whenever he did manage to fall asleep he’d just wake within an hour or so. The only good thing to come from that was it didn’t give him enough time to dream up that shit that’s been plaguing him every night. But really that’s insignificant to him now when during the entire night he kept experiencing severe bouts of paranoia.

He never strayed far from his .45. It was the only thing that made him feel a little at ease. He felt as though the enemy was lurking in the shadows watching, waiting, and that there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it because he couldn’t see jack. But as much as the feeling of being watched disturbs him, the thought that maybe he might be going insane bothers him even more. Maybe all this stress is finally getting to him. Maybe he’s _finally_ lost it; after everything he’s already been through, now’s the time he loses it.

He’s always carried a certain level of stress on his shoulders, but over the years it’s been steadily getting worse, between dealing with Merle, having enough money to pay everything, but now? With his backstabbing brother destroying the vast majority, not enough fuckin’ money to pay his bills and barely scraping up enough to pay for the basic commodities, he’s got a murderer stalking him that he’s pretty sure is the one he feels watching him, he had a fuckin’ stroke… mini stroke, he can’t do most of the things he would want to do because of his damned injuries. At least he was spared the night of his fucked up dreams.

He gave up on sleeping hours ago. Now he’s now lying on his couch at the crack of dawn, deciding his hand on working to become an alcoholic next… to add to all his problems.

He’s hoping the beer will be enough to take the edge off his nerves. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to live much longer like this without going completely insane. Last night he had the overwhelming urge to board up all his windows like the creepy redneck hermit he’s sometimes rumored to be just so he would stop feeling the prickly tingle on his skin from eyes that he doesn’t even know are actually there or not. Maybe he should get himself some dead bolt locks to put on his doors, which reminds him that he needs to replace his fuckin’ locks. The last thing he needs is Merle to come pay another visit, even though he doubts he will. He seems pretty put off by their last parting.

He chugs down the rest of his beer and groans as he pushes himself up into a sitting position, setting the empty can on the coffee table.

He stiffly limps through the hallway and stops at the hall closet. He gets out the new lock sets and a screwdriver and begins to take the door knob off the front door, letting his mind run rampant.

What if he really is the freak everyone makes him out to be? When compared to someone normal, someone like Jon, he begins to really think these people might actually have a valid point. He can’t really think of one time where he was happy as a kid, like genuinely happy. Nobody ever wants to be around him, they turn their noses up at him like he’s some nasty bag of garbage someone left sitting out for too long. Why would they feel this way? They must have a reason, right? He couldn’t even earn the love _or_ respect from his father. How could he expect everyone else to treat him differently? He can’t even be hungry without it reminding him of shit from his childhood. And right now? Something snapped in his brain… and now he can’t get his head out of the past. His mind tortures him with it… he fuckin’ dreams about it, there’s no peace. And that on top of everything else is running him ragged. Normal people don’t have to deal with shit like that. They don’t have nightmares about their fucked up child hood. They weren’t deprived of important stages of life in their childhood to grow up normal. He doesn’t know how Jon and Diane can even stand being around him.

He finishes with the front door and changes the knob and lock for the back door.

He decides that he’ll finally try to get some sleep, since he has nothing else to do except clean up the rest of his house, but he’s already in enough pain. Periodically bending down and then back up for extended periods of time will only add to that.

He limps stiffly to his bedroom and carefully lies in bed, not bothering to pretend he’s not in pain because quite frankly, he is… a lot.

He shifts around on the mattress, tuning out the squeak of the mattress by habit as he struggles to find a position that doesn’t make him hurt. He breathes out a moan when he finds the least painful position, lying on his right side. He lets his exhaustion pull him into a restless sleep.

X

Daryl snorts as he wakes with a jolt, silently screaming, immediately feeling the hot pain in his side, apparently having rolled over sometime during his sleep and is now lying with all his weight pressed into his stitches.

He rolls over onto his back carefully and pants deeply, letting out a breathy moan as the skin around the stitches on his side throbs.

He pushes himself up and off the bed. He stiffly and very slowly puts his pants and boots on. He puts his usual stuff in his pockets and limps outside to his truck.

He goes outside intending to walk to his shed to figure out what the hell is wrong with his work truck, but immediately stops his stride, standing frozen, and stares at the two flat tires on _his_ truck. The one he just drove last night without any complications. _What the fuck?!_

He warily walks closer to the tires and examines for possible cause, the tingling prickle in his skin mounting with each step. There in the rubber, he observes, are definite puncture wounds slashed into the tire. The other one is the same way. Daryl runs a frantic hand through his wild hair. There’s no way he can patch this up, he’ll have to get new tires. If his truck tires are flat now, that means someone…

Daryl glances around his property from his position half expecting to find someone peeking out from a bush or something, but sees nothing. He looks back down at his tires, biting his lip. Someone did this on purpose. There is no way in hell this was an accident. Someone’s trying to fuck with him. Maybe he’s not as insane as he thought he was.

He straightens up and limps with purpose to his work truck in the shed. He feels his anxiety peak again when he sees that his work truck has the same treatment. He rubs a hand down his face and groans.

He pulls out his phone noting that the time is 12:31pm, but dials Jon’s number anyway. He’s not surprised when he just gets Jon’s voice mail because it’s still work hours.

“ _Hey, this is Jon Wesley. I can’t answer the phone right now so leave a message or call back later._ ”

“Hey, uh… both my truck’s got flat tires on ‘em, so I’m gonna need ya fuckin’ help with this. I only got one spare. Call me back when ya hear this.”

….

Jon looked at his phone after work and was concerned when he saw the missed call and voicemail from Daryl, his mind immediately going back to when he called during his mini stroke. He anxiously listened to the message and his concern changed to suspicion when he heard what is was that Daryl had called about.

Jon called him back and Daryl explained going outside and finding two tires on each of his trucks slashed.

With nothing else to do about it Jon drives straight from work to Daryl’s house.

He pulls up and stops in Daryl’s driveway, glancing at each of his trucks, and then looks over to the front door of Daryl’s house. He gets out and walks up to the front door and knocks.

A few seconds pass and then the door opens. Jon takes an involuntary step back at the sight of his friend standing in front of him, taking in the gashes marked into his face, his unusually pale skin that makes his bruises appear even darker, the bandages wrapped around his left arm and both palms, and the way he not so discretely favors his right leg, not to mention his overall ragged appearance making him look like he’s sick. He realizes Daryl didn’t look his best a couple of days ago, but this is just… terrible.

“ _What?”_ Daryl growls harshly. Jon looks back at his face and sees the deep rooted, slightly defensive scowl there, and he realizes he must have been making a face. “I knew I was ugly, but I didn’t I think I was _that_ ugly.”

Jon shakes his head; he mistook his scrutiny as one of judgment.

“Daryl… what in the hell happened to you?!”

Daryl’s expression sours even more, stretching the cut on his upper lip, and he shakes his head. “It don’t matter none. What’s done is done.” He looks around outside, eyeing the yard quickly, eyes cautious like he’s searching the perimeter, before looking back at Jon. “Why don’ ya come in?”

Jon glances behind him to see what Daryl might’ve been looking at before walking in. He stops in the middle of the living room and looks around. He’s pleased with the major improvement in the state of everything, even though it’s not his house. He glances around and remembers what Diane told him about Daryl’s TV. He looks over at Daryl, who’s wearing a worried face and not really looking at him.

“Merle took yer TV, ya said?”

Daryl jerks his head toward Jon and scowls again. He crosses his arms, but then quickly uncrosses them with a grimace on his face.

“Yeah, asshole took it. That’s how I got like this.”

Jon sighs and looks over at the empty TV stand. “Didn’t get it back, then.”

“Naw. Hell…” he says with a humorless chuckle, “he ain’t really got the damn thing neither.”

Jon quarks a brow, “yeah?”

“I shot that bitch to pieces,” he says with a humorless smirk.

They fall silent for a few seconds and Daryl’s face fades back into his earlier expression of worry as he looks back at Jon.

“I got a problem, Jon.”

Jon is about to respond, but Daryl interrupts.

“Jus’ follow me, an’ see what I mean.”

They walk outside to his trucks and he waves an arm in their direction. “Tell me what ya notice about ‘em.”

Jon looks down at the tires. He already knows they’re flat. That’s the whole reason he came over here, but the fact that there’s four flat tires, both trucks tires flat on the same side gives him all he needs to know to see it wasn’t an accident. He looks closer and sees the slits in the tires where someone slashed them. He looks back to Daryl.

“Someone slashed yer tires,” he states flatly.

Daryl nods his head and then shakes it slightly. “It’s not just that. Whoever…” He pauses and looks down at the tires then glances at his house, “whoever the fuck this is, is fuckin’ messin’ with me.” He points a finger at his temple. “Fuckin’ playing with my mind. The fact they slashed four tires ‘stead of two makes me feel like they’re tryin’ ta keep me from leavin’. Then all last night I could’ve sworn that someone was watching.   It Kept me from fuckin’ sleepin’. From relaxin’...”

Jon frowns at Daryl getting worked up like this, at his face all screwed up like it is. It would be clear to anyone with a pair of eyes and a brain to see that this whole situation is getting to him. And unfortunately there’s not much he can do about it. He can only think of one thing that might help him, but he’s not sure he’s willing to offer it just yet. So instead he changes the subject.

“Well I’ll be paying for the tires for the company truck.”

Daryl looks up again like he didn’t know what Jon was talking about before clearing his throat and nodding quickly.

“Yeah. I got a… I got a spare tire I can use… Hafta buy another one, though.” He walks to the back of the shed, disappearing behind a shelf, the sound of metal clinking and grinding against the concrete as he moves tools around and reappears rolling the spare tire in front of him. He leans it against the wall and grabs a jack and lug wrench and awkwardly carries it over by the work truck. He sets it beside Jon with a raspy sigh.

“Let’s get this shit off.”

….

Daryl stares out the window, watching the familiar scenery flash by as he and Jon ride down to Mike’s tires, the town’s only tire shop. He mindlessly wraps and unwraps the corner of the tape around his left palm as he thinks about yesterday and his stupid brother, as he think about last night and early this morning. He couldn’t shake his paranoia then and it disturbs him how something like someone slashing his tires get past him with his suspicions raised.

“You hear me?”

The faded voice cuts through his mental bantering and he snaps his head over to the left.

“Huh?”

Jon’s looking at him with his lips in a straight line before he looks back at the road.

“I said are ya gonna get a new TV?”

Daryl leans back in his seat, puffing out air from his cheeks. “Ahh… I’m gonna have ta get a coffee maker ‘fore I get anything else.”

Jon grunts before muttering, “Hell…. can’t go without that.”

They pull into the parking lot and Jon shuts off the truck. Daryl steps out of the truck more carelessly than he should have and feels the sharp twinge in his stitches and achy muscles.

He sees a flash of long, curly brown hair when he turns around and shuts the door.

“Daryl Dixon.” The familiar voice makes him stand up straighter. Tensing his shoulders, he turns around and sees the hazel eyes of Satin staring back at him a few feet away.

“Well, what’s got you out and about, handsome?” she says, voice dripping with honey.

Daryl scoffs. _Handsome? Is this chick blind?_

“I thought it’d be a nice day to go out strollin’ and found myself at a tire shop,” he mumbles and glances behind him and sees Jon get out of the truck and look over at Daryl with a raised eyebrow. He looks back to Satin. “Why are _you_ here?”

Her eyes roll to the side and she puts a thoughtful finger to her bottom lip as she thinks. “Right now, I’m waiting for them to change my oil. The garage seems awfully busy today.” She looks at the shop then back at Daryl, a big smile creeping onto her face. “That just means more time we can talk – get to know each other.”

She reaches forward and caresses his bandaged arm and Daryl watches cautiously, considering what the voice in his head keeps telling him. _Run_. She stops at the bandage on his palm and wraps her hand around his, rubbing his palm gently with her thumb.

“What happened here, Daryl?” she asks, cocking her head to the side lifting his hand up closer to her chest. “You’re all cut up. And with a big strong man like you, you’ll need your hands to do what you do for a living.” She brings his fingers up to her lips and places a gentle kiss before wrapping them around his index finger and sucking.

Daryl’s eyes widen as his finger is engulfed with the warm wetness of her mouth. Panic wells up inside him as he feels warmth spread through his stomach. _What the hell is wrong with this chick?_ With desperation feeling him, he rips his finger from her mouth and steps back hurriedly, bumping the truck door with his back in the process.

“I… I gotta go,” he stammers out as he walks away from her, face burning. His face burns even hotter when he sees that Jon was standing there watching the whole exchange from the sidewalk.

“Smooth,” Jon comments when Daryl walks by. Daryl shoots him the nastiest, angriest glare he feels he’s ever made.

“Fuck you,” he spits out angrily.

Jon looks behind him as he walks after Daryl towards the entrance. “I don’t think it’s me ya gotta worry about.”

Daryl growls under his breath and narrows his eyes. “Shut the hell up.”

The rich tangy scent of rubber assaults their noses as they walk into the office. Daryl, still immensely frustrated, walks over to the rack and picks up the tire replacement for his pickup, and ignores the conversation Jon picks up with Mike behind the desk. He hears Jon say his name and he looks over, seeing Mike glance at him before speaking back to Jon.

“That’ll be $175, Jon.”

Assuming Jon explained the reason why they’re here, Daryl carries the tire up to the desk, grunting quietly as it tugs on his stitches. He sets it down and leans it against the desk.

“That’s 86 bucks for ya,” Mike directs at him and Daryl swipes his debit card in the slot.

“Alright, well I’ll have Bob go out and get the tires in the back of your truck, Jon. And you’ll be set in about 30 minutes. Jus’ sit back an’… relax.”

Jon turns and gives Daryl a single pat on the shoulder as he walks over to the chairs along the wall. Daryl follows, glancing behind him out the window. He takes the seat in the only chair that’s beside Jon.

He finds himself unable to relax in his seat. Not even a little bit. He fidgets with his pack of smokes, wishing he could work up the nerve to go back out there so he can have his smoke, and tell that chick to go fuck herself, but he doesn’t. Instead he sits straight in his chair rigidly, staring intently at the warning label of the pack. He nearly pisses his pants when he feels someone touch his arm.

He jerks his head towards the person and sees Jon’s concerned, slightly confused, face ducking towards him ever so slightly, in an attempt to keep any conversation to themselves.

“Ya alright, Daryl?” he asks quietly.

Daryl looks at him for a moment longer and then shrugs his shoulders, slouching in his seat and chewing on his thumbnail.

“And I’m not talking about the ‘being able to walk’ kinda alright, I mean are you _alright_?”

Daryl stops chewing his thumbnail and turns his head towards Jon. Every thought, feeling, memory, that keeps plaguing him comes rushing back full force and he feels like he might get crushed under its weight. How could he possibly explain any of this to Jon? He opens his mouth to try to say something, but gets distracted by the ringing of the bell connected to the door, the cool air in the room getting sucked out the door as someone walks through it.

Daryl snaps his mouth shut when he sees it’s Satin and mashes himself against the back of the chair as far as possible in a vain attempt to make himself invisible. Unfortunately it doesn’t work because when he looks up at her through his eyelashes, she’s staring directly at him. He quickly looks back down and chews on his lip as he watches her feet carry her to the row of chairs adjacent from theirs. He has the overpowering urge to breathe a sigh of relief, but refrains from doing so because he knows she would definitely hear it.

He looks back over to Jon and sees him glance at Satin, which causes Daryl to look as well. He regrets it though because he finds her still staring directly at him. It might not actually have been so bad, but the look on her face is not one he can read. But considering his major rejection from earlier, he imagines it’s not a happy one.

Daryl quickly looks back down, pushing away the shiver he feels creeping up his spine. _What is it with this bitch?_

“She’s a persistent bitch, I’ll give her that,” he hears Jon mumble quietly from the corner of his mouth. Daryl finds himself chuckling despite himself.

“That’s one way a’ puttin’ it.”

….

“You should stay away from Merle.”

The sudden voice pulls him from the slumber that he didn’t even realize he fell into. All the shit he’s going through is catching up to him and now he feels exhausted. He sits up in the truck seat and turns to Jon with squinty eyes and bags under his eyes that feel ten times puffier than they were previously.

“Huh?” he rasps out gruffly, blinking his eyes hard in an attempt to wake himself up.

“You should stay away from Merle. Every time yer around him now, y’all end up fighting. The next time ya might end up actually needin’ to go to the hospital.”

Daryl scoffs. “Hell… I shoulda wenta the hospital last t-” Daryl snaps his mouth shut realizing he said way more than he wanted to say in his sleepy haze.

Jon glances at him with a frown. “What do ya mean?”

Daryl shakes his head.

“Nothing. It don’t matter now.”

“No, tell me. It hafta do with all your cuts?”

Daryl doesn’t answer Jon for a very long time while he mentally scolds himself for the slip up of information he wouldn’t normally give.

After minutes of silence he eventually mumbles, “yeah.”

Jon glances at him. “How bad is it?”

Daryl looks back out the window, frowning. “It _was_ bad. I can manage now.”

“It’s not going to affect your job when you get back to work is it?”

A twinge of panic builds inside him at the thought of being forced to take off work even longer.

“No. No, I can work,” he answers quickly. Maybe a little too quickly.

Jon looks at him skeptically, but eventually nods his head. He knows that Daryl would probably get out on the job and try to work with a broken arm. In fact he tried doing that once, but Jon put a stop to that pretty quick when he realized it.

They pull into Daryl’s driveway and Jon stops behind the blue truck.

“But I’m serious, Daryl. I think you should stay away from Merle.”

Daryl grabs the door handle and mumbles, “me too,” before stepping out of the truck.

“Let’s start with yers and then do the company truck,” Jon says.

…

It didn’t take long to get Daryl’s truck tires back on and they both go back to Jon’s truck bed and get the two remaining tires and haul them out of the bed and roll them to the company truck in the shed.

Jon turns to Daryl when they get the tires situated by their designated wheel hubs. “I’m gonna do these tires.” Daryl frowns at him and opens his mouth to speak but Jon cuts him off. “It’s the company’s truck, and right now you’re not working, so that makes this my responsibility.”

He’s not about to tell Daryl that the real reason he wants to do it himself is because he doesn’t want him hurting himself, he can tell that he’s already in pain right now. He looks into Daryl’s face and sees him looking back with furrowed eyebrows and calculating eyes. But if he calls him out on his excuse he doesn’t say anything.

Daryl shrugs his shoulders and grunts, “needs some damn water anyway.” He limps a few steps before stopping and turning back halfway. “Ya want some?”

Jon grunts an affirmative and Daryl limps out of the shed towards the house.

Jon turns to the wheel hub and puts the tire on it and begins screwing in the bolts with the lug wrench. He’s on the fifth bolt when Daryl walks back in with a cigarette in his mouth and a couple of glasses and then disappears from view. He finishes with the last bolt and looks around, knowing that he didn’t just hallucinate Daryl walking into the shed. He turns around quickly, caught up in the sudden and irrational feeling of panic, and stops quickly when the lug wrench he’s holding smacks hard into Daryl’s head. The sound of Daryl’s startled yelp and braking glass feels the shed as he falls quickly back against the work bench, hitting his head again then crumpling on the wet ground holding his head.

Jon stares down at him and the sudden rush of guilt quickly fades into irritation.

“What the hell, Daryl!? Why were ya sitting so damn close behind me?” he yells at him. Daryl looks up, past his hand, and the look he’s shooting him feels very wrong in Jon’s chest.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” Daryl screams and scrambles away from Jon, eyes wide. “ _Please?_ ”

At this point Jon realizes something is very wrong and steps toward the scrambling man on the ground. “Daryl… what are you talking about?”

Daryl just scoots himself back even faster as he approaches.

….

Will sneers down at him, but Daryl sees the amusement in his eyes as he lies in the floor scrambling away from his merciless father.

He was coming home from school and found a broken bike just laying there in the ditch, so he brought it home to try and fix. He’d never had a bike before and thought maybe… if he could fix this one up, he might finally have one. He soon realized when his dad came home what a bad, stupid idea that really was.

Will busts into the shed completely irate to see his son in his shed. He snatches up the first object within reach, which happens to be a wrench, and smashes hard it into Daryl head, sending him flying to the floor, trying desperately to contain a sob.

“You really think yo sorry ass deserves a bike?” He looks over to the old, rusted machinery and barks out a laugh. “Even a piece a’ shit like this one?!”

Daryl doesn’t say anything; he just tries to swallow the lump in his throat, and then looks up at his father. Will rushes forward and yanks one of Daryl’s feet, pulling him toward him quickly. Daryl sends out his other foot in desperation, landing it across Will’s jaw, the jolt of the hit traveling up his leg.

Will roars in pain and anger and slams his fist down hard into Daryl’s stomach, knocking all the wind out of him, turning Daryl’s scream into strangled gasp for air, all the while the feeling to puke overwhelms him.

He still hears Will’s cussing as he gasps, desperately trying to get his breath back. Then suddenly Will is ripping him up from the floor by his shirt and pulling Daryl’s face inches from his own bloody one.

“You piece a’ _shit!_ ” he spits into Daryl’s face, his hot breath hitting him square in the nose. _“_ I wished yo mama woulda neva fucked around with that blonde headed freak! Ain’t no way in _hell_ ya my kid with that gay ass head full a’ blonde hair!”

Daryl feels the back of his head slam into the wall, getting scraped by a nail sticking out of the post, as he struggles to breathe again from the tight pain consuming his stomach. Then he suddenly can’t breathe _at all_ as his dad wraps both of his hands around his neck and squeezes hard. Daryl gags and chokes, his heart thumping wildly in his chest as he uselessly claws at the hands around his throat.

“I could solve all my problems righ’ now.” Will eyes Daryl with a sick grin. “Jus’ a little more… pressure…” Will squeezes even tighter around Daryl’s throat and he panics, scrambling at his father hands even harder, no doubt clawing the shit out of his skin.

“Daryl… stop!”

The faint voice does nothing to encourage him. Why would he stop? He still can’t breathe. The hands are still wrapped around his throat. But the voice rings out again somewhere in his head.

….

Jon watches Daryl with wide eyes as Daryl franticly claws at his throat, like a man possessed with a demon who’s trying to rip it out by clawing through his own throat.

He’s never seen anything like this… ever, and it’s scaring the shit out of him.

“Fuck it,” Jon grits to himself as he grabs Daryl’s shoulders. He _has_ to do _something_ ; Daryl’s face is turning purple.

“Daryl!” he yells, but he doesn’t respond.

He grits his teeth and shakes Daryl’s shoulders violently.

“Damnit, Daryl! Wake! The! Hell! Up!”

Jon stops when Daryl sputters something incoherent. He abandons his previous plan and tries pulling Daryl’s hands away from his throat because he’s scratching the shit out of his neck and making himself bleed. Daryl fights with him, though, hitting him in the face and chest. Jon seriously considers slapping him again. _It worked the first time, didn’t it?_

“ _Daddy… please!”_ The heart wrenching plea makes him freeze and stare at the man, who at this very moment looks so much like a small child. Jon swallows. _This is not working._

Jon quickly looks around and sees the glass Daryl left sitting on the work bench. He quickly strides to it and snatches it up and runs back, crouching in front of Daryl. Without much of a thought he throws the water in his face.

Daryl jerks his head back, loudly gasping as his eyes widen impossibly big. He stares at Jon as though he hasn’t seen him in years as he breathes in deep.

Jon watches as Daryl’s eyes dart back and forth across his face frantically.

“You okay, man? You scared the shit outta me,” Jon says quietly, putting a light hand on his shoulder.

The look in Daryl’s face changes then, eyes losing contact. He quickly sits forward and pushes Jon to the side, hastily getting to his feet. Jon watches as Daryl unsteadily limps away towards his house.

Jon lets out a sigh and looks down at the ground. _Well if this didn’t turn into a bunch of shit…_

He runs a hand across his face and looks at the truck in front of him. He ultimately decides to finish the job. Daryl would probably rather be alone right now, anyway.

He locates the lug wrench and finds it by Daryl’s broken glass on the floor.

He lowers the jack and tightens the bolts on the tires. He moves down to the other end to take care of that wheel. He jacks it up and removes the cinderblocks from under the truck and jacks it back down, and then tightens the bolts.

He sets the jack and lug wrench against the wall. He rubs his hands on his pants and blows out a breath.

“Damn…” he whispers to himself and begins walking towards the house.

He steps into the living room and looks around, even though he doesn’t expect him to be in there. He isn’t in the kitchen. He walks towards the hallway finding the door to Daryl’s room closed. He hesitates before lightly rapping on the door.

“Daryl… you in there?” he asks softly through the wooden door.

He waits for a response, but there’s none. He presses his ear against the door and listens. He isn’t sure, but he thinks he can hear the faint sound of something bump into wooden furniture.

“You okay…?”

He slowly wraps his hand around the doorknob and gives it an experimental twist and almost cheers when the doorknob turns all the way.

He opens the door wide and steps in, looking around the room for his friend. He’s confused when he doesn’t immediately see him. The room is completely silent as his eyes scan the room. Then his ears pick up on the sound of breathing and he walks around the bed to locate its source. When he clears the bed he frowns at the sight in front of him. There on the floor is Daryl hugging his knees tightly to his chest with his back pressed against the wall, wedged between the left side of the bed and his dresser, his face the epitome of a thousand yard stare. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t even see Jon standing there.

Jon takes slow steps forward and crouches down a few feet in front of him.

“Daryl, man… You alright?” Daryl only continues to stare downward.

He immediately notices the swelling on the right side of his head, and Jon begins feeling immensely guilty, knowing he’s the cause it. He says his name a few more times with no response. He puts his hand under Daryl’s chin and raises it up, trying to get a better look at his new afflictions. He can tell he scratched his neck pretty good, leaving some pretty wicked looking claw marks, but the lighting doesn’t give much away on where he clobbered him in the head with the wrench.

He moves his hand and Daryl’s head slowly falls back down to its tilted position. He doesn’t like this, Daryl being unresponsive like this. It makes him even more concerned for his well-being than he already was. And he doesn’t know what to do to snap him out of it. He definitely doesn’t want to leave him like this. Because if Jon leaves him like this and he stays this way, for however long that would be, he knows he won’t eat or drink anything. And he doesn’t know how he’ll act once he’s out of this… trance he seems to be stuck in.

He grabs onto one of Daryl’s biceps and shakes him enough to try and knock him out of it.

“Daryl!” he yells and almost shouts with victory as he sees Daryl blink for what seems like the first time since he’s walked in the room.

Daryl blinks up at him and within an instant shrinks back away from him and looks away.

Jon frowns at the behavior. He watches as Daryl turns his body askew to him and glances at him from the corners of his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Daryl blurts out in a tight voice that doesn’t sound right to Jon. He doesn’t sound like Daryl. Not the Daryl he knows, maybe a much younger, more vulnerable version, but definitely not the Daryl he knows.

Daryl must find the face he’s making uneasy because when Daryl looks into his face again the next thing he says comes out in a stammer.

“If I’d ‘ave known you’s gonna turn around that fast… I m-mighta not…. I wouldn’ta been there. I’m sorry,” he finishes quickly.

Jon shakes his head and stands up. No. He definitely doesn’t like this.

Daryl watches him carefully as Jon sticks a hand out. “Come on. Let’s get a look at yer head.”

Daryl stares down at his hand like if he touches it, it might explode.

“Just to the bathroom,” Jon clarifies.

Daryl lets out a breath through his nose and grabs a hold of Jon’s hand and Jon helps pull him up to his feet. He gets up on unsteady feet and braces himself on the dresser.

He gives Daryl a few seconds to get his bearings.

“Ya good?”

He mumbles a quite, “yeah,” through his vale of hair, from his downcast face.

Jon walks Daryl to the bathroom, a hand holding onto his shoulder to keep him from swaying too badly.

“Sit down on the toilet seat,” he commands Daryl, who mindlessly does as told.

“Where d’you keep yer first aid kit? I know ya got one.”

Daryl points a lazy finger to the cabinet under the sink.

Jon crouches down and gets the kit out, setting it on the sink. He looks around for the ointment and grabs a fresh wash cloth from the cabinet as well.

He runs the cloth under warm water and turns to Daryl, finding him watching with apprehensive eyes.

He walks closer to him and Daryl leans back slightly. Jon raises the wet cloth slowly, showing him what he’s holding, as though he’s showing a scared horse that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

He lightly bumps the bottom of Daryl’s chin with his hand, signaling him to look up. Jon begins cleaning his neck, Daryl tightening the muscles as the cloth wipes over the scratches. When he finishes washing off any dried patches of blood he drops the cloth on the sink. He turns back to Daryl, who’s sitting there with his eyes closed, his head slowly drooping toward the floor.

“Wake up, Daryl.” He grabs his shoulder and Daryl raises his head and opens his eyes with furrowed brows. He turns Daryl’s head to the side and studies the knot on it. Apparently he hit him with his head turned because the knot is back behind his ear.

He sighs to himself, knowing that he must have a massive headache right now. Probably even a mild concussion.

He feels around the back of Daryl’s head because he hit the back of his head pretty hard against the wall. He feels through his hair and stops when he feels hair that’s wet, too sticky to be from water.

He gets Daryl to turn more and grabs the wash cloth and wipes the blood out of his hair. He raises the hair up so he can get a look at the scrape. It’s already scabbed over but he puts antibiotic ointments on it anyway.

When rubbing on the ointment he hears an unrhythmical rumble come from Daryl’s stomach, who tenses up slightly.

Jon would normally ignore something like that, but it occurred to him that neither of them had eaten anything since before he got off work and it’s now… Jon looks at the clock on his phone… 8:30. He’s feeling pretty peckish himself right now.

He turns Daryl back around to where he’s facing him, and he begins patting his pockets and pulls out his pack of cigarettes and then fumbles around for a lighter.

“Hey,” he says, getting Daryl’s attention, and he looks up slowly to meet Jon’s gaze.

“You hungry for anything?”

Daryl looks at him for a moment and then shrugs his shoulders, sticking his cigarette between his lips and lighting it.

Jon narrows his eyes slightly at the man’s uncommitted response. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not hungry,” he answers, but then his eyes widen as his stomach makes a whiny growl. He looks down and lets out a puff of smoke, fidgeting with his fingers. “I’m not…” he trails off.

Jon frowns, crossing his arms.

“I think yer stomach disagrees.”

Daryl looks up then, taking the cigarette from his mouth. “Yeah, well… the thought of eating anything makes me feel sick. I feel like I could puke right now.”

“Maybe you feel sick because you need to eat.”

Daryl’s eyes narrow to slits as he works the muscles in his jaw. “I know what the hell it feels like to be hungry. I’ve gone _weeks_ before without having a single bite of food. So don’t talk to me like I don’t know. I damn well do know. And I know the damn difference!” he hisses.

Jon leans back on his heels and stares at Daryl. _What happened to the wounded little boy he was just talking to?_ He stares at Daryl and Daryl stares right back. Trying to get over the hurt feeling his outburst caused, he suddenly registers what Daryl was just saying and finds himself beginning to feel physically ill. He _knows_ he was talking about when he was a kid and it makes him feel sick that his bastard of a dad wouldn’t even _feed_ him.

“Well, hell…”

Daryl drops his piercing gaze to his lap and sighs, shaking his head and then covering his face with his hands. He can tell he regrets spitting out the words. He sees the tinge of red on his ears peeking out from his hair.

Daryl quickly sticks the cigarette back in his lips, puffing on it like it’s a lifeline, and rubs his face, peeking at Jon through his bangs. “Don’t matter much no way. I ain’t got no food.”

Jon’s shoulders slump. “What?”

Daryl grimaces up at him. “Merle pretty much made sure a’ that.”

Jon straightens up and steps out of the bathroom. He walks into the kitchen and opens his refrigerator, finding nothing. He throws the door shut and searches through all his cabinets and hears the floorboards behind him creak. He glances behind him and sees Daryl standing there watching with a miserable expression on his face, rubbing his stomach back and forth in what he assumes to be a soothing manner.

He turns back to the last cabinet and rips it open, sighing in disappointment when he’s greeted with emptiness before turning back to Daryl with a frown. He rubs the side of his face, the two old day beard scratching his palm.

“Ya wanna come over to my house and eat?” he offers.

Daryl purses his lips and shakes his head, muttering, “naw...” ending his response with unintelligible mumbles.

“Well, do ya… want me to go get ya some food from town?”

Daryl shakes his head again.

“You ain’t gotta do nothin’ for me,” he says gruffly.

“I don’t got to… but I don’t want to just stand by and let my friend starve to death in his own Goddamn house. Why didn’t you get some yesterday? Diane told me that’s what you were doin’,” Jon says with somewhat of a clipped tone.

Daryl crosses his arms, not liking the accusing tone.

“I guess I was just too busy tryin’ not ta bleed to death to…” His arms fall to his sides when he realized the words that flew out of his mouth, again not intended on being shared. He groans in frustration at himself and fists his hair.

Jon stares at Daryl hard, absorbing the words he yet again accidentally let slip.

“ _Shit_ ,” Daryl hisses, rubbing his face. “I didn’t mean ta say that.”

Jon raises his eyebrows. “Well you _did_. I should know if you could’ve died yesterday, dontcha think?”

Daryl stays silent. The silence stretches on as they stare at one another. Only their breathing and the occasional sounds from Daryl’s stomach keep the silence from being constant.

“Did you go to the hospital?” Jon asks finally.

“No... I went to Hershel’s. He fixed me up.”

“What the hell happened, Daryl? Did Merle cut you with a knife?”

Daryl sighs. “No. We was arguein’ an’ he pushed me inta a glass shelf. Cut me up. I was bleedin’ out faster ‘en it took to stop.” He looks down slightly. “Got blood all over my truck bench,” he mutters, more to himself.

Jon sees Daryl shift uncomfortably on his legs, swaying unsteadily as he does.

“Let’s sit down.”

They move to the dining table and sit.

“Where’s it bad?”

Daryl sighs tiredly and picks at his nails. “My worst is on my forearm here, my thigh, and… my ribs.”

Jon raises an eyebrow and looks down at the bandage wrapped around his arm. “Let me see ‘em. Let me see how bad they are.”

Daryl looks up at him and stares, then shakes his head. “I’d have ta take my clothes off. No way.”

“I’ve seen yer scars before. Ain’t a big deal.”

Daryl eyes him again. “Yeah, well… that don’t mean ya gotta see ‘em again.”

“I need to see how bad they are. Can’t let you work without knowin’ you’ll be fit to. Yer already injured enough.”

Jon hold’s Daryl’s gaze, then Daryl looks down, finally giving in.

“Fine! But I ain’t takin’ my pants off.”

“Fine by me.”

Daryl stands up and gingerly begins unbuttoning his shirt. His fingers freeze on the third one down and he looks up at Jon for a second, before sighing and looking back down at his fingers. He quickly unbuttons the rest of his shirt and then slides it off his shoulders, throwing it on the back of the chair.

Jon does a quick once over as Daryl unwraps his bandages and notices that he looks like he’s actually _lost_ weight since his episode at Jon’s house a few days ago. _This man seriously needs to eat some food... right now._ It doesn’t even look like there’s a single ounce of fat on him, just bone and muscle, which only serves in making his ribs look all the more prominent.

Daryl gets the bandage on his ribs off and Jon sees several crisscrossed and jagged cuts marring his left side, but the reddish gash that curls around his side to his back being held together by stitches catches his attention more than anything else there.

Jon gets out of the chair and walks to him. He grabs Daryl’s arm, not tight enough to hurt but not too gently, turning the back side of his forearm out to get a good look at the gashes in his arm, especially the long stitched gash that’s carved into his forearm and gets deeper towards his elbow. Jon grimaces slightly. He knows he’s got to feel that every time he bends his arm. He blows out a breath, glad that _he_ doesn’t have to.

He moves Daryl’s arm up and out of the way so he can look at the gash over his ribs. Daryl gasps quietly at the quick movement and Jon thinks maybe he jerked him a little too roughly.

The gash there looks more irritated than his arm. But he’s not surprised considering where it’s located. Daryl’s stomach gurgles then during his inspection, and combined with his close proximity and being caught off guard he reflexively looks to the source of the sound. But his gaze gets hung up on the scar going across his belly. He noticed it before, but he definitely wasn’t this close and couldn’t see it this clearly. Obviously, it didn’t happen by accident, which makes his mind burn with questions that he would never actually ask out loud, even though he has an inkling of what caused it… along with the rest of them.

He’s thrown from his thoughts when Daryl suddenly rips his arm from Jon’s hand and folds them both over his stomach.

“Don’t stare at ‘em,” he says firmly. “You just told me it ain’t a big deal. Don’t fuckin stare at me like ya readin’ the daily newspaper.” He rips up his shirt and throws it on, injuries be damned, and buttons the shirt with frustrated movement. “Well, you saw the stitches, doc! What’s my prognosis?!”

Jon quickly steps back, scowling. “Damn yer moody today!”

Daryl glares at Jon like he might actually make him burst into flames. “Maybe you should leave.”

Jon frowns and walks to the front door and turns back. “You better go get you some food.”

Daryl sighs rubbing his hands down his face. “I’ll go in the morning! How’s that?”

“I’ll hold you to it,” he says before shutting the door, none to quietly, behind him and walks to his truck.

He heads home feeling pissed off at the man he’s driving away from. He has to remind himself, though, that he did get clobbered in the head pretty hard. He was acting pretty weird after the fact. And that… flashback? That shit scared the hell out of him. The more he thinks on it, the more he starts to feel bad, realizing that hitting him in the head caused all that extra shit to happen. And that’s definitely not what Daryl needs right now.

He pulls into his driveway. When he steps inside the front door Diane is there almost immediately.

“Where have you been!?”

Jon closes the door behind him and shakes his head. “I’ve been at Daryl’s.”

“Really? How was he?”

Jon rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “Honestly? He’s not doing that great. He doesn’t look like he’s slept in a week. I think he actually lost weight since he’s been at our house. I’m worried about ‘im.”

Diane frowns at him with worried eyes.

“He initially called me over because he had four flat tires. _Four_ , not two, two on each truck. What’s wrong with that picture?”

He gives Diane a few seconds to think before continuing.

“Someone’s playing games with him. And the stress, it’s getting to him. I can tell. He’s not thinking clearly. And that concerns me. If the people who own that cabin – that stalker, get the better of him…I’m afraid of what’ll happen.”

Diane stares at him with wide eyes, absorbing the information.

“Maybe… now bare with me… maybe we can ask Daryl to stay with us, until the cops catch these people.”

Jon swipes a hand across his mustache in thought. “Yeah, I was actually conciderin’ that.”


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

A ding from his cell phone sitting on the bedside table distracts him from his failed attempt at falling asleep. He pulls his forearm from where it’s covering his eyes and lets it fall beside him on the bed as he stares at the ceiling. It takes about 30 seconds before he wills himself to get the energy to get his phone. He blindly feels around the table until he feels his fingers come in contact with the rectangular edges of his phone.

He pulls it in front of his face and unlocks the screen and sees the message is from Jon. He furrows his brows and wonders why Jon would be texting him so late. He frowns when he glances at the tiny clock on the top of the screen that says 6:30am. _Well hell_. Had he really been trying to sleep for that long? He heaves a sigh and reads the message.

_“Go to the fuckin store and get you some Goddamn food before I start force feeding you all the shit in my cabinets.”_

Daryl huffs and texts, “ _asshole”_ before he throws the phone beside him on the bed and closes his eyes again, going back to trying to sleep when his phone dings again. He groans and paws the sheets beside him until he grabs it and pulls it in front of his face. Jon sent him another text.

_“I’m fuckin serious. I will come down there with a whole box of donuts and make you eat them.”_

Daryl grimaces at the thought. He actually knows what that feels like… and it ain’t good. And he doesn’t exactly feel Jon’s threat is empty, either. When Jon gets worked up about something, sometimes he can do some wild shit and _this_ doesn’t exactly sound below him.

He quickly responds before Jon gets the chance to get all his shit ready and come down here.

_“Please don’t.”_

Two seconds later he gets a text from Diane. Daryl furrows his brows and reads it.

_“Go to the store Daryl. Jon’s got his box of donuts. I can’t stop him. He just left.”_

“Shit!” Daryl shouts as his eyes widen. He quickly jumps out of bed to get ready to leave and texts Jon before he can get too close to his house.

_“Good lord Jon! I’m goin! I’m goin! Keep ya damn donuts. Shit.”_

_“Ha”_

Daryl scowls at his screen and throws it on the bed, so he can get dressed.

…

He limps through the kitchen appliances isle looking for the cheapest coffee maker possible. He’s so sick and tired of not being able to have any coffee. He finally spots a Mr. Coffee at a reasonable price that agrees with his budget. He pulls the box off the shelf and puts it in the buggy. He smirks to himself, relishing the idea of having coffee when he gets home.

His smirk turns into a distraught frown when his stomach growls loudly, making him glance around him, making sure no one was within earshot. It looks like he’s alone, though.

It’s pretty fuckin’ early anyways, everyone is probably either at work, school, or in bed… like he should be.

He shakes his head at himself and limps towards the grocery section to get the shit he came here to get before his stomach ends up growling with people around. People _already_ make faces at him, he’s pretty sure that would only make it worse. They’d probably sneer at him like they think he’s gross or something. Grosser than they think he is already, that is.

He goes to the coffee aisle first, making sure he can seal the idea of having coffee when he gets home. He grabs a pound of Maxwell House, so he knows it will last him a good, long time.

The rest of his browsing goes without any mishaps. Any people who did show up somewhere in his vicinity ended up not going anywhere _near_ him. He watched a few of them from the corner of his eye, watching him and then looking over to the shelves. They would do this periodically, switching their gazes back and forth between him and the shelf like they were considering if it was really worth risking their lives or contracting some mysterious disease just from breathing the same air.

He thinks that he probably looks pretty suspicious with the bandages on his arm and hands, the cuts on his face, and his trademark scowl to top it off. He doesn’t exactly have the friendliest looking disposition. But it’s what keeps people from fucking with him the best and that’s what he’s going for.

He pushes his not so full buggy to the check out, ready to leave this terrible place. He limps to a random check out and begins putting his stuff on the belt, the young lady behind the cash register watching him. He holds the box up for the lady to scan, so she won’t have to move it herself, and puts it back in the buggy. He pushes the buggy up beside the bags so he can put them in as she fills them.

He steps back to stand in front of the cash register to watch the items ring up and his stomach begins growling sporadically, which embarrasses the hell out of him. He tries like hell to pretend that it doesn’t even though he still feels his face heat up, and with each rumble he finds it harder and harder to pretend. He doesn’t even know how he managed to get all his groceries in the buggy because his mind was so distressed he was in a daze, going through all the motions.

Now he’s rigidly standing in front of the lady, pulling out his wallet. He doesn’t want to look at this lady’s face. He doesn’t want to know what she’s thinking, but if she ends up saying something to him about it he’s pretty certain he might start yelling and cussing her out. He feels like he’s about to explode. He _knows_ his face is cherry-red with the way his face is so hot that it feels cold on the surface. And he’s vaguely aware of the beads of sweat forming at the back of his neck and forehead.

He manages to hear her voice telling him the price through the heavy thud of his heart pounding in his head. He pulls out the appropriate amount of money and hands her the cash with slightly shaky hands, desperately avoiding eye contact. She tells him his change and he chances a look at her face as he takes the money from her hand.

He doesn’t know if her face makes him feel better or worse. She has a smile on her face, but not an amused smile or anything similar of the kind. It’s a small shy one that makes Daryl quickly look back down and clear his throat. He slides the money in his wallet and stuffs the change in his pocket.

He turns and pushes the buggy out of the store limping faster than his usual pace, feeling the lady’s eyes on him as he goes.

He practically throws all his groceries on the passenger side floor board when he gets to his truck. He slams the door shut and roughly pushes the buggy in a random direction, not giving a flying fuck if it rams into someone’s car and walks around his truck and plops himself down into the driver’s seat. He leans over and digs through the bags to locate the loaf of bread he just bought and angrily pulls it out. He rips the twist tie off and literally stuffs a whole slice in his mouth, quickly chewing it up and swallowing. He doesn’t know why he didn’t do this shit earlier. That was just fuckin’ _ridiculous_.

He angrily swipes at the sweat on his forehead, before letting his head fall against the steering wheel.

_Hell…_

….

He quickly gets all his groceries in their appropriate places, leaving the coffee maker last to deal with.

He sets the box on the dining table and cuts it open with his pocket knife. He opens the flaps on the box and smiles. He pulls out the beautiful, shiny coffee pot and carefully sets it on the counter. He has to refrain from giving it a little kiss. The sight really makes him feel something. _Damn, you are pathetic._ He frowns at the sudden intrusion of Merle’s voice in his brain, but quickly shoves it out of his mind. He has a fuckin’ coffee pot again!

He quickly plugs the machine in and grabs a filter from a box in the cabinet sticking it in the holder and pulls the container of coffee towards him and begins scooping out grains into the filter. He pours water in the back, turning it on while biting his lip. He feels like dancing, but that would be way too painful so he settles for snatching up a moon pie and taking a seat in a dining chair.

On the last bite of his moon pie he hears a knock at the door. He glances at the clock on his wall and sees it’s only 9:00am. _Who the fuck would be knockin’ on my door?!_

He swallows the bite of moon pie and limps over to his door, peeping through the hole to see who’s there. He furrows his brows when he sees the fish-eyed image of Officer Rick Grimes standing with his back to him looking out across the yard, hands on his hips.

Daryl groans. _What the hell does he want?_

He opens the door with a sigh and Rick quickly turns around to face him with a courteous smile.

“Hey Daryl, how ya doi-” Rick stops suddenly with wide eyes and then furrows his eyebrows in concern. “You okay, man… Ya need to report anything?”

Daryl frowns and shakes his head slightly. “Naw… I’m fine.”

“Ya sure?”

Daryl purses his lips, nodding slowly. “Mmhhmm.”

He glances behind Rick to his sheriffs car and half expects to see Rick’s shadow sitting there sulking because he had to come into the Dixon’s yard, but finds the passenger seat empty. Rick sees him looking, following his gaze, and must realize what he’s thinking.

“Oh, yeah. I told Shane to stay back on this one. I thought I’d be better if it was just me that came.”

Daryl flicks his gaze back to Rick. “Good call.” Rick hums in response.

Daryl shifts his weight onto his good leg and rubs the bandages on his arm. “Now why the hell ya come here?”

Rick straightens up just the slightest. “I came partly ta see how yer doin’ and tell you that we don’t know anything about the bodies from the cabin, their autopsy reports haven’t come back yet, and partly ta get that knife you mentioned to us a while back.”

The knife in question flashes through his mind and he rubs a hand through his hair. “Hell… I forgot all about that shit.” He sighs and looks to the side. “Alright come on in. I gotta go find the damn thing.”

He opens the door wider so Rick can step in. He gestures to the dining table. “Ya can take a seat here. Don’t fuckin’ sit over there.” He points to his living room.

“Why’s that?” Rick asks, looking up at him as he takes his hat off and sets it on the table and takes a seat. Daryl looks over to the living room where his fucked up recliner is still sitting. He doesn’t really feel like explaining to Rick about how his brother ripped up his recliner, pissed on it, and he’s too self conscious about it because if you sit over there you can slightly smell it. He just hasn’t been able to get it out of his house yet. Daryl sighs and looks to Rick with a blank, no nonsense expression.

“I’m still renovating,” he answers vaguely, which Rick raises an eyebrow to, but says nothing more.

Daryl turns away from him and heads toward the hallway, racking his brain trying to remember the last place he had the knife. It’s like one of those situations when you have something in your hand and then suddenly it’s gone because you put it somewhere while you were distracted. He can only come up with his brother’s room, where he has the last clear memory of the knife, when it was sticking out of him.

He opens the door to Merle’s room and his eyes widen.

“Holy shit!!” he says with way more volume than he would have liked. He completely forgot to look in his brother’s room to see if he trashed it like the rest of his house… which he did. He definitely trashed it.

He hears quick footsteps behind him and glances over his shoulder, seeing Rick approach.

“What? What is it?” He stops quickly when he clears the doorway and stares into the room, then he turns to Daryl who’s already in the room, bent over searching through the junk. “What the hell happened here?”

Daryl stops rooting around the junk to look up at Rick in the doorway. “My fuckin’ brother… trashed my house a few days ago. I hadn’t been in here since that bastard that snuck in my house and stabbed me ran out the damn window.” He turns back to the half cut up mattress turned over a pile of shit next to the window. “You might wanna go back to the kitchen and take a seat. This may take some fuckin’ time.”

Rick steps forward. “I could help ya move stuff out the way. Ya look like you could use some help.”

Daryl stops again and glares up at Rick, who stops his advance to look at Daryl questioningly. “I don’t need no fuckin’ help. I’m perfectly capable.” He turns back and flips the cut up half mattress out of the way with a grunt, stitches burning from the force.

“Ya sure?”

“Yeah I’m fuckin’ sure!” Daryl growls and then stops, seeing the knife just sitting there in the corner of a fallen over bookshelf and the wall. He drops the shit he’s holding and steps over piles of broken objects and clothes to get to the knife.

He picks it up carefully by the hilt and immediately notices the dark rusty colored blood crusted onto the blade of the knife.

_Gross…_

He smirks to himself and turns back and carefully steps over the piles of shit to get to Rick. He stops in front of him and holds out the knife to Rick.

“Found it,” he says with almost a smirk.

Rick looks at the knife and sees the blood dried on the knife. He looks up at Daryl with a slight grimace before looking back at the knife and dropping it in an evidence bag. “Okay…” Rick starts.

Daryl walks around Rick to get out of the room and heads to the kitchen. The coffee should be done by now. He gets the kitchen and smiles when he sees the dark liquid through the glass of the pot. He immediately heads to the cabinet and pulls himself out a coffee cup and then as an afterthought, grabs another one.

He glances behind him, seeing Rick walking back in the kitchen.

“Ya want some coffee, Rick?”

“Sure, sounds good.”

He turns back and fills both of the cups.

He walks to the dining table and takes a seat. He slides Rick his coffee across the table before he takes a couple of big gulps of his own. He puts down the half full cup on the table with a satisfied sigh.

“So…” Rick begins, taking a sip of his coffee and then setting it on the table with a soft _clunk_. “What happened to you… between now and the last time we met?”

“What do you mean exactly? A lot a’ shit’s happened…”

“Your injuries…”

Daryl sits back in his seat and crosses his arms careful of his stitches. “What about ‘em?”

Rick furrows his eyebrows just the slightest. “How’d you get ‘em? I know it wasn’t an accident.”

Daryl stares at Rick for a few seconds, chewing on his lip. He doesn’t want to tell this guy anything, not really. He’s already told Jon and that itself felt like a whole lot. He’s told Hershel a little bit, too.

Sighing, he gives him the watered down version. “I kicked my brother out, then we came to blows…. more than once.”

Rick nods his head. “Why’d you kick him out?”

Daryl shoots him an incredulous glare. “Ya fuckin’ serious? Ya ever met Merle?”

Rick sits back with raised eyebrows and then nods, frowning slightly.

“Right, he’s not exactly a discrete kind a’ guy. You should try fuckin’ livin’ with ‘im. It took me damn near 17 years, but I finally got tired of his _shit_.”

“So Shane was right then?” Rick asks and Daryl squares his jaw, and the fingers folded under his arms dig painfully into his sides, as he stares intently at Rick. _Shane was right about… what?_ The longer Rick just sits and looks at him the more pissed off he starts to get. He can feel the blood pressure rising to his head as the perpetual headache he’s become accustomed to starts to pound heavier in his temples. _Why don’t you fuckin’ elaborate? He was right about what? My dad?! My brother?! About me bein’ a fuckin’ pussy?! Fuckin’ What!?_

He finally loses patience for Rick to explain himself, seeing Rick still looking at him. “Right about what?”

“The bruises you had then… at Jon’s house. That _was_ from a fight with Merle?”

Daryl huffs out a sharp breath, relaxing only slightly before he glares back at Rick and puts a hand to his temple.

“Partly… And what the hell does this have to do with anything?” he asks curtly.

“We need ta make sure he has nothing to do with the guy who broke into your house.”

Daryl snorts, dropping his hand onto the table. “Sheeeyiit. I fuckin’ _know_ he doesn’t.”

“Ya sure, Daryl?” Rick presses.

“Hell yeah, I’m fuckin’ sure. Merle’s done fucked up his brain too much with drugs to be able ta orchestrate shit like that. Besides… he _did_ break inta my house… about two days later, left my house in ruins. That’s more his style, anyway. Tear shit up everywhere he goes.”

“Okay… so the cuts on your face and the bandages are from your fight with Merle then?”

Daryl gives him a short nod and takes a sip from his coffee.

“Ya sure there’s nothing there you’d like to report – press charges. It looks like it must have been a serious fight.”

Daryl takes another sip of his coffee, and gently swishes it around in his mouth as he seriously considers if he should or not. Merle’s seriously been such a pain in the ass, more so lately. This would probably be the perfect opportunity to show him personally what it’s like.

“Hell…. I prob’ly should. Asshole stole my damn TV. Fuckin’ paid a lot of money for that shit. _Goddamn._ ” He stops himself before he can get too worked up about it again. “But… I’mma pass on that.   Ended up like this in the process, but I pretty much took care of that shit myself,” he comments, gesturing to his face and arm.

“And your neck?”

Daryl squints his eyes in confusion. “What about my neck?”

“The scratches on your neck, did that happen then too?”

 _Shit._ He forgot that they were even there. Now he’s forced to remember how they got there. _He_ put them there… He may not have been lucid then, but he remembers what he saw, he remembers scratching at the hands wrapped around his neck, he remembers seeing the blood underneath his fingernails later. No, he may not have been lucid, but he’s not stupid. He can make the connections.

Daryl stares at Rick and purses his lips, giving his head a slow shake. “No.”

“What then?” Rick presses with a curious look on his face.

Daryl squints at him, very reluctant to tell him _anything_ about his episode yesterday. He doesn’t need to know about that shit.

“It don’t matter. Wadn’t by nobody,” he answers lowly, trying to choose his words carefully, even though as he says them he realizes he chose the wrong words.

Rick makes a face then that makes Daryl want to slap the shit out of him to wipe it off. Rick’s looking at him like he suddenly understands everything he’s not saying. How would he possibly know? How _could_ he? Daryl shoots him daggers, daring him to say something, anything about him, his family, or anything even slightly related. What he’s probably familiar with are most likely the family’s police and medical records and any rumors that have been tossed around over the years. Nothing he wants to be reminded of and only the tip of the iceberg of anything he could know personally about Daryl’s life.

Rick turns his head and stares off into the living room, deciding not to get into the subject. “So… have you had anymore encounters with the suspect?”

Daryl relaxes his shoulders and tries to clear his mind of his past and current miseries. The ones that make him thrash around at night and make him wake up thinking he’s a kid again.

He scratches the back of his head and sighs. “Encounters? No. But someone did slash a couple a’ tires on each a’ my trucks. I don’t know fer sure, but I think it was them. It would have kept me from leavin’ my house completely… if it weren’t for Jon.”

“Why do ya think it was them?”

Daryl studies Rick, searching for any sign that he might just be looking for ammunition to fuck with him, but so far Rick seems like a decent enough fellow, true to character as far as he’s showed. He hopes he follows through with it because he doesn’t feel like dealing with assholes trying to make him look and feel bad about himself. He too fuckin’ exhausted for that.

“I felt them watching me.” He stops and waits for Rick to respond with some type of retort, but he just waits for Daryl to continue. “I never actually saw them, but I felt that unsettled feeling you get when someone’s watchin’ ya. Ya know?”

Rick nods his head. He can’t tell if he’s actually identifying with him or just humoring him, but he continues nonetheless.

“I thought I might ’ave been goin’ crazy, but I found out they were really there when I came out and found my tires flat.”

Rick nods again and folds his hands on top of the table. “Alright… okay. But _how_ does this make you sure it was them?”

Daryl presses his lips together into a thin line, feeling his temper rising again. _Wasn’t he just listinin’?_

Daryl narrows his eyes and tilts his head forward, looking at Rick throw his brows.

“Remember that picture, Rick? The one where they’re in my house… It felt like that. The feeling was the same.”

He stares at Rick who’s still looking at him with his skeptically raised brow, making Daryl have to suppress an annoyed growl.

“Look I know I have no actual evidence to prove it was them, but I know… _in my gut_ … that’s who it was, so don’t fuckin’ look at me like that.” He grits through his teeth pointing at the man sitting across the round dining table from him.

Rick leans back and raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I mean I guess it’s really not that hard to believe when they got their eye on ya like they do.” He stops and looks down at his fingers for second then back to Daryl. “They haven’t tried to actually mess with ya any then, besides slashing yer truck tires? They haven’t come in contact with you or anything like that?”

Daryl frowns and shakes his head. “Nah.”

Rick props his elbows up on the table with a serious expression on his face. “These people are serious, Daryl. They’ve claimed eight victims already without managing to get caught. If you hadn’t stumbled upon what you did in the woods, the police still wouldn’t even know and we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. You’d just be goin’ along with your life not knowing that a _murderer_ is watching you… waiting.”

Daryl swallows, looking at Rick with narrowed eyes that give none of the thoughts and emotions swirling around inside him away. “What’s the point of telling me all this, Rick? Tryin’ ta scare me?” He subconsciously puffs up his chest at the notion of being afraid.

Rick leans forward on his elbows. “What I’m saying is… We’re tryin’. We really are, but we’ve never dealt with anything like this before and I think we might be just a little out of our element here.” Daryl can’t help but scoff at the comment, which Rick frowns at. “These people are giving us next to nothing to go off of. It’s why they’ve been getting away with it for so long.” He stops and glances away with a stern mouth before looking back and into Daryl’s eyes. He leans even closer and says quietly, “the next time you get a ‘feeling’, you call us. No… call _me_. Maybe even get a camera and set it to look out over your yard, front door and back. Anything to help us catch these bastards and make sure they don’t get you or anyone else ever again.”

Daryl looks down at the thumb he didn’t even realizing he’d been chewing on. “I don’t think calling you when I feel ‘em watchin’ me would work. Hell I couldn’t even catch ‘im and they were right there in front of me. That fucker was fast. What makes you think they’re gonna just wait around for you to get out of your car to high tell it out of here?”

“I don’t, but it’s better safe than sorry. I’m ready to catch these assholes.”

Daryl looks down, mumbling, “yeah… me too.”

Rick stands up and grabs his hat off the table before he pulls a card out of his pocket and drops it on the table. “That’s my card. You run into trouble, you call me.”

Daryl leans forward and slides the card towards him as Rick walks to the front door. Daryl picks up the card and gives the number a once over. He snaps his head up to Rick when his voice sounds out over by the door.

“I’d consider that camera idea, definitely wouldn’t hurt none. And I seriously advise you to try sticking close to someone you know can help watch your back. I don’t want to find out that these assholes got you. That’d be a damn shame.” He walks closer to the door and stops when he wraps his hand around the handle and looks back placing his hat on his head. “You take care of yourself. I mean it.”

Daryl nods and Rick steps out and closes the door.

Daryl heaves a sigh and turns back to the table, shoulders slumping when he stares down into his cold coffee.

….

Jon drives into Daryl’s driveway and parks his truck. He reaches over to the passenger side and grabs the box of a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts and slides himself out of the truck.

He doesn’t bother knocking on the door. Instead, he just walks straight through the door and looks around. He doesn’t see Daryl, so he strolls over to the kitchen. He smiles slightly when he sees that Daryl _did_ go to the store. He sets the Donuts down beside Daryl’s new coffee maker and turns toward the living room, thinking maybe Daryl might be lying on the couch.

He quietly walks towards it and starts hearing a faint snore accompanied by a slight whistle that confirms his theory. He walks closer to the sound and ends up standing behind the couch staring down at Daryl, mouth slightly hanging open, sacked out on the couch. His left hand rests on top of his stomach while the other dangles towards the floor.

Jon leans over the back of the couch just enough to cast a shadow across Daryl’s form.

“Daryl,” he calls softly. Daryl doesn’t move even slightly.   Jon clears his throat and whacks the back of the couch, screaming, “WAKE UP!”

Daryl’s sudden scream and abrupt spasms startles Jon and he takes a quick step back as Daryl scrambles desperately on the couch to regain his upright position and ends up falling to the floor with a heavy thud, vibrating the house. The room is quickly filled with panicked curses as Daryl’s gets to his feet in a flash. Daryl freezes on his feet as he stares at Jon with large freaked out eyes, heaving heavy puffs of air. It takes about a second for recognition to dawn in his eyes and he slouches in on himself, placing a hand to his chest and growling out an irritated breath.

“ _Fuck!!_ What the fuckin’ hell, Jon!? Ya motherfucker! Tryin’ to fuckin’ give me a heart attack?! God _damn!!_ ” Daryl leans forward and braces himself against the couch. “ _Damn_.” He lets out a breathless chuckle. “I thought you was… one a’ _them_.”

Jon frowns and walks to Daryl, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You should probably start lockin’ yer doors when you take naps.”

Daryl turns his head to him and then runs a tired hand through his hair. “Hell… I didn’t _mean_ to fall asleep… I was jus’ so damn tired.” He drops his hand and squints at him like he’s trying to see him better. “Why are you here?”

Jon moves his hand and takes a step back. “I brought over that box of donuts.”

“Ohh.” Daryl breathes out and looks back down in between the arms bracing himself. “Next time… give a fuckin’ warnin’. Not sure I’ll be able to take much more of that shit…. _Damn_.” Daryl puts his hand back on his chest.

“I’ll… keep that in mind.”

“Oh yeah…” Daryl says as he sits himself on the couch with a groan. “Rick came by today. He told me they don’t know nothin’ about the victims yet, that they still don’t have nothin’ on those fuckers from the cabin. Said I should probably put up a few cameras out there, an’ I thought that didn’t exactly sound like a bad idea.”

“Probably would be a good idea…” He falls quiet thinking about Daryl, how he is currently, living all alone. “You could stay with us for a while,” Jon offers finally and Daryl looks up at him with his eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, both me and Diane think it would be a good idea if you weren’t alone…” Jon waits for Daryl to respond, but he just stares at him.

Finally after for what seems like forever he gives a slight shake of his head.

“Nah, Jon. But thanks… I appreciate it,” he says slowly and leans forward, his hands grasping onto his knees.

Jon nods his head slowly, frowning, not too surprised by his answer. “Alright, well. Have a nice evenin’ Daryl, I’mma head on home.” He turns around after Daryl tells him bye and exits the front door to go home.

He’s faintly aware of the sound of the door locking behind him as he walks away to his truck.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

It’s been two weeks since Daryl’s started back to work, and he’s happy to finally be doing something with himself. His week off was fun and everything, but he would have much preferred to be busy instead of just sitting around doing nothing. His first week back to work was refreshing, even though it was work. During his break he felt a little lost. With going back to work he feels like he has purpose in life again, instead of feeling like a piece of no good redneck trash. Although when he does a house call they still look at him like he’s shit, but his job is necessary and a lot of people don’t know how the fuck to do it right, in the end though they usually thank him, albeit begrudgingly.

During the remainder of his break he went out with Jon to get one of the hunting cameras from the woods, thankfully without any incidents or sightings of his stalker, and set them up at his house. Since his truck tires, there hasn’t been anymore encounters with them. It’s like they packed up and left to go find a new subject, which would make Daryl incredibly relieved yet sorry for the new bastard, but he’s got a feeling in his gut that suggests otherwise. The proverbial silence of his stalkers should be a relief to him but it just makes him even more suspicious, more on edge. He can’t help but get the impression that they're gonna be right around the corner… waiting until he suspects it least.

He can tell that Jon and Diane are picking up on this because of their subtle attempts to soothe his mind; he can see the worry in their eyes which, in turn, makes him feel even shittier. He doesn’t want to burden them. That’s his biggest reason for not taking Jon up on his offer. As much as work gives him a brief break from his freak outs, it’s not really enough to not take a toll on his body and mind. He can literally feel the pressure it’s putting on him.

He glances at his reflection as he combs his hair in the mirror after stepping out of the shower.

He can finally look at himself in the mirror without cringing. Apart from the reminiscent pink lines where he got slashed from the glass, the inflictions of his face have healed significantly. His nose is still healing, but it’s not swollen like it was. It still hurts like a bitch though, especially when he sneezes. And he got his stitches out, much to his relief.   Now he can go about his day not having to worry about his limited mobility and end up ripping shit out of his skin.

He walks out of the bathroom towards his closet and pulls out some clothes to get ready to go to Chitlin’ Switch and watch Jon play on stage with his group of buddies. Jon’s built up a pretty good following with his music, especially Bud Murphy, the bar owner. He’s taken a really good liking to his music and often has Jon and the group play down there for entertainment. And he knows the place will be packed when he gets there or at least close to a full house, which fills Daryl’s belly with a terrible sense of dread. He hates crowds. He always has. And it makes matters worse because most everyone already knows who he is and has passed judgment on him before he even walks into the building.

He walks back to the bathroom in front of the mirror, pulling out the collar on his sleeveless shirt that got tucked into the inside and looks back in the mirror, examining his overall appearance. He can easily say he looks better than he did a couple of weeks ago, but he’s still not winning any most handsome of the year awards. He still has dark circles under his slightly puffy eyes that he can’t exactly pass of as bruises anymore.

He still hasn’t had a good night’s sleep. His dreams seem to keep getting worse, much more realistic, and much more graphic, hitting him deep where it fucked him up the most. He actually woke up screaming the other night, tears on his face. His shame was almost unbearable.

He doesn’t want people knowing about his problems. Both Jon and Diane worry about him enough, they don’t need even more to worry about. They both know about that one dream he had at their house, but they don’t know that it wasn’t just a one time thing and he’d like to keep it that way.

Daryl leaves his bathroom and dresses himself with his usual weaponry and pulls on his leather vest. It’s late September and the weather is really starting to cool off during the latter of the day.

He walks to front door and grabs his keys from the bowl he keeps his stray change in and makes his rounds around the house making sure everything is locked and turned off like it’s supposed to and makes his way out to his truck, double checking he locked the front door. He walks off the porch and turns around to look at the camera to insure that they are at least _still_ there, and then looks back in front of him.

He runs a calculating eye over his surroundings as he walks to his truck, the ever present need to be constantly vigil taking effect. He tries to ignore the sense of dread he feels seemingly out of nowhere.

He decides to take his sweet time driving to the bar, passing it off as him being lazy instead of stalling to be in such a big crowd. He’s trying to soak up as much solitude as he can, alone in his truck, but it seems like he gets there in no time at all.

He parks outside of the building, already able to hear the music as he hops out of his truck. And judging by all the vehicles in the lot, he was very right in saying it would be packed, though it seems he’s the only one outside. Everyone’s inside having a good time, he guesses.

He walks through the maze of cars through the entrance, immediately engulfed with music and murmurs of people talking.

He instinctually glances to the stage, giving a slight smirk when he sees Jon playing his fiddle. He walks through the crowd of people towards the bar. He sits down on a vacant stool and waits for the bartender to look in his direction.

He orders himself a shot of Rebel Yell and knocks it back quickly, savoring the burn. Immediately after, he orders a bottle of beer and takes it with him when he leaves the bar. He looks around at all the people and booths. He knows Diane is supposed to be here somewhere in the mass of people. He walks a little way into the crowd and spots her sitting in a booth talking to a woman he’s not too familiar with, sitting across from her.

He walks through the crowd, feigning confidence in an attempt to hide how bothered his nerves are and heads toward the booth, reprimanding a few people for bumping into him carelessly. He walks next to the booth Diane is occupying and leans against the outside, casually taking a swig from his beer. He waits quietly to see how long it takes them to notice his presence.

Finally Diane looks in his direction and jumps in surprise before smiling.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asks. The lady that was talking with her looks over at him with furrowed eyebrows and he catches her scrunch up her nose for a split second from the corner of his eye.

“‘Bout a minute or so.”

Diane looks towards the lady and then back to Daryl.

“Daryl, this is Jennifer. Her husband Richie is playing the guitar.” She turns to Jennifer, “And I’m sure you know who this is.”

She nods her head and Daryl shifts on his feet fixing the lady who he already knows thinks shitty of him with a slight glare.

“Yeah, um… I didn’t know you two were acquainted with one another,” she responds in a slightly condescending tone .

Daryl’s tight lipped stare turns into a scowl at the woman’s response and he’s about to reply _What’s it ta you?_ but is interrupted by Diane giving an actual answer.

“Yeah, we’ve know each other for a few years.”                  

Jennifer looks between them with a raised eyebrow before they crease and a small smirk spreads across her face. “Really? How long?”

Diane shrugs her shoulders. “Oh, I don’t know,” She looks at Daryl, “bout five years or so…?”

Daryl nods his head and cuts his eyes to the lady, seeing her smirk grow wider. He feels annoyance bubble up into chest.

“Well, that’s interesting. I never knew.”

Daryl scowls at the woman gets deeper.

“ _Knew?_ What’s ta know?”

What’s this woman going on about? He isn’t liking how this woman has an attitude about her like she’s divulging something immorally stimulating and she can’t wait to leave and gossip to all her little bitch friends.

Her smirk falters just the slightest bit before it forms again and Daryl feels his annoyance build. “I didn’t know you could be civilized long enough to make friends. It’s surprising really, someone like you –”

His expression darkens as his glare turns ice cold. “Fuck you! You don’t know shit about me. You’re just some stupid bitch that buys inta all the gossip shit that people like to spread around just fer cracks and giggles. If ya had any sense at all you’d know that they don’t know shit neither.”

She stares at him for a few seconds, smirk never faltering. “Well _I_ may not know you, but Diane sure seems to.”

Daryl’s nostrils flare with anger as his temper is pushed past its threshold. “Get the fuck out of here!”

She looks at him and crosses her arms.

“ _No_. I don’t have to do what you say, yer just a lowlife redneck. I don’t have to listen to you. I’d prob’ly make more money than you within two months being a pharmacist than you would a whole year wiring houses. What makes you expect you have any say over me. I was here first anyways before you decided to grace us with your _divine_ stench of animal musk, musty cigarettes, and God knows what else, by standing by our booth.” She finishes with a laugh and turns her head, looking across the table at a pissed off Diane who’s glaring at her intently.

“I think you _should_ probably leave,” Diane tells her curtly. Jennifer uncrosses her arms and glares at Diane who raises her eyebrows expectantly.

Jennifer scowls and slides toward the edge of the bench where Daryl bows slightly and waves his arm in a ‘lady’s first’ kind of gesture. Jennifer glares at him as she slides out beside him, making a show of scrunching up her nose as she slides past, and takes a few steps away from him.

He scoffs at her back.

“Stupid cunt ass _bitch_ ,” he growls to himself, but she obviously hears him because she turns around in a whirl, slapping him hard across the cheek, knocking his head to the side. Daryl’s mind becomes fuzzy and then his brain suddenly clicks into defense mode. He has no control over himself as he pushes her shoulders hard, instinctively shoving his attacker away making her fall on her ass with a scream. _“Don’t fuckin’ touch me!”_ His voice hisses out in a tone so venomous that it even frightens _himself_.

He glares down at her, noticing the bar around him gone silent and realizing he caught a few people’s attention as they have their heads turned watching the altercation.

The woman stares at him with large eyes before she gets up slowly, glaring hard at Daryl, but she doesn’t try to touch him. Daryl shakes his head trying to think straight, anger clouding his judgment.

“I’m not fuckin’ apologizin’,” he states tersely.

She stares at him hard.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Daryl squints, getting the sense that she might not be being completely honest, and he glares at Jennifer even harder, studying her with a sharp gaze.

She scowls, chewing on the inside of her lip before she hisses out at him, “fuck you!” and spits at his feet.

Daryl watches as she turns on her heels and he angrily flips her off with both hands as she walks away. He hears a few huffs of laughter, but he ignores them. _Nosey shits is what they are._

He blows out a breath and turns his head toward Diane, who look like she might have been ready to spring into action, and shakes his head.

He slides into the booth and holds his beer up with somewhat of a sheepish grin. “Managed to keep my beer…”

He takes a large drink of it and grimaces before he swallows it down. “Think I mighta shook it up some.”

Diane lets out a soft laugh and then makes a serious face. “You don’t stink by the way.”

Daryl chokes on his beer as a little huff of laughter bubbles up from his throat.

“Really?” he asks voice slightly teasing, slightly contrary.

“Well at least _I_ don’t think you do,” she adds with a shrug.

“Hell… I just took a shower not that long ago. I _shouldn’t_ stink.” He reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, pulling his hand back and rubbing at the moisture that collected on his fingers. “My fuckin’ hair’s still wet. What the hell she think I shower in, sewage water?”

Diane laughs out louder than she means to and covers her mouth, failing to hold in a snort. Daryl smirks at her, letting out a small chuckle.

“Who fuckin’ knows with her. She’s kind of uppity,” she eventually gets out, voice still shaky from her laughing fit.

Daryl looks around, the high from his laugher fading quickly when he’s suddenly slammed with the reality of it all. “I dunno what the fuck’s wrong with people, Diane… I dunno… It’s like when they look at me they don’t even see a person. All they see is some dirty animal that should be euthanized just for the indecency of being in their presence. It’s been that way my whole life. It’s fuckin’ depressin’.”

Diane’s smile falls completely from her face and she looks at Daryl, glances around the bar and then back at Daryl and then gives an encouraging smile.

“I don’t know why people can’t have more of an open mind. They don’t know what they’re really missin’.”

Daryl looks down and grunts. He tries to give her a smile, pretty sure that it just looks like a grimace. Any bit of a good mood suddenly drained from him as he takes a big gulp of flat beer.

He sets the bottle down on the table and puts a hand on the side of his face. He can feel his cheek is beginning to swell into a whelpy texture as he lightly runs his fingers across it. It burns like hell, too. That chick has a hell of an arm. He wouldn’t ever tell anyone, though.

_Fuckin’ bitch._

He drops his hand on the table and sighs. “I’m sure that shit’s prob’ly not over with.”

He looks at Diane, who’s shaking her head with furrowed eyebrows.

They both turn and look toward the stage watch Jon and the band play. They comment here and there about random subjects, sometimes talking about music or the song they’re playing.

Daryl flags down a waitress and orders himself another beer and some barbequed hot wings.

His hot wings arrive within a few minutes and he chows down, practically inhaling the chicken.

“Damn, Daryl,” Diane admonishes as she watches in shock at the speed in which he’s eating.

Daryl freezes mid-chew and flicks his eye up to meet Diane’s, feeling his face flush with embarrassment as he slowly sets the piece of chicken down in the basket with the minuscule amount of its remaining friends and quickly chews up the rest of the large mouthful of chicken and swallows it down. He looks over and snatches a couple of napkins out of the holder and wipes his mouth, knowing he probably has sauce smeared in his goatee.

He looks back at her and shoots her an embarrassed smirk, before clearing his throat and awkwardly shrugging. “I’m hungry.”

She raises her eyebrows at him and purses her lips. “I get that, but you’re eating like you’re starvin’ ta death…” She cuts herself short and narrows her eyes at him suddenly. “You _are_ eating, right?” Daryl doesn’t answer fast enough so Diane keeps pressuring. “ _Right?!_ ”

“Yes! Yeah, I am. Jus’… not much today, alright.”

“Why’s that?” she asks, not doing anything to hide the suspicion in her voice.

“I jus’ didn’ have much time today.”

Diane stares at him hard, looking like she’s studying a piece of art for any imperfections before she flicks her gaze back to Daryl’s eyes and studies him a few seconds longer before she gives out a slow, “Alright.”

Daryl looks back down at the hot wings, frowning at his sudden loss of appetite. That was the first time in almost two week that he actually had an appetite, the concept of actually having his appetite back was almost exciting. Eating was always one of his favorite things to do, but with all his anxiety, sudden bouts of depression, and constant paranoia, it’s pretty much sucked him dry of any actual desire to eat. The past few weeks he’s usually just eaten enough to tide him over until later or keep his body from giving away how much he’s _not_ eating.   But this was so sudden; it caught him off guard like a punch in the gut with how strong it was. It makes him wonder if that’s how he would have felt during the past couple of weeks if he actually had an appetite with the way he kept himself from just _barely_ running on empty.

He reaches for the last pieces of hot wings and basically forces himself to finish, knowing not nearly a minute ago he would have happily done so. He glances at Diane, who’s gone back to watching Jon play and seems unknowing of Daryl’s internal struggles.

He chases them down with the finishing gulp of his beer and sets the empty bottle back on the table with a loud _clunk_.

Diane glances at the bottle before redirecting her gaze to the stage. Daryl sighs and rubs his face, grimacing when he rubs against the slap mark before he slumps into the back support. He suddenly realizes how much he doesn’t want to be here and wishes he was at home away from all these people. Hell, he wouldn’t have even come if weren’t for Jon.

He closes his eyes tight and rests the back of his head against the support, trying to block out all the senseless chatter and focus in on the bluegrass filling the building, more or less trying to get into a meditative state to forget where he is. He stays that way for probably two minutes before he feels a sharp kick to his knee causing him to jerk his head up and look toward the offender.

“What the hell?” he asks Diane.

She ignores his question. “Are you okay, Daryl? I called your name a few times but you didn’t answer. You looked like you were in pain… are you hurting?”

Daryl squints at her for a few seconds before muttering, “I wasn’t until _now_.” Diane gives him a sheepish grin and shrugs. “With your hard ass boots and… _fuck_ ,” he hisses the last part as he rubs his knee quickly, trying to ease the sharp pain.

Just as Diane frowns at him he notices a familiar face going towards the bar with a familiar group of people from the corner of his eye. He glances in their direction and snaps his head back, slumping forward against the table and placing a shielding hand above his eyes in a pathetic attempt to hide himself.

“ _Shit_.”

“What?” She glances around the bar and looks back with furrowed eyebrows. “What is it?”

He pivots his head towards her slightly and peaks at her from under his hand.

“Merle and his gang a’ shit heads er here.” He sneaks a glance over his shoulder towards the bar. “Can’t say I’m too surprised… I don’t think they know I’m here though…. yet.”

“Maybe he won’t notice.”

“Yeah… knowing my luck, that prob’ly won’t happen.”

Just as he says the words he hears a loud raspy voice call out his name from across the bar making him cringe and sink lower in his seat.

“Well well, what do we have here?” He sees Merle approach from the corner of his eye and takes not the air of narcissism filling each step. He can already tell he’s strung out on something and that nothing good’s going to come from this confrontation.

“Derlina’s got himself a little girlfraand. How cutee,” Merle gushes mockingly, sporting a big grin, showing unkempt teeth.

Daryl tenses and turns his head just enough to cut his eyes to Merle. “Fuck off Merle. She’s not my girlfriend.”

Merle doesn’t hear him or he ignores him, moving his attention away from Daryl and leers towards Diane, leaning against her booth while Diane stares at him warily.

Merle’s grin gets wider as he looks her up and down and then he turns his head over to his brother.

“How’d a pussy such as yaself score such a fine piece of ass like this….?” He turns his head back to Diane. “Have we met before, sugah, I don’t think I know ya.”

Diane scowls. “Fuck you Merle! You know who I am.”

“Woo ho, she got sass. I like that. My baby brother treatin’ ya right?” Daryl tenses even more when he sees Merle slide into the booth with Diane, trapping her in the booth. He feels a strong anger surge through him he sees Merle lick his lips suggestively.

“Leave ‘er the fuck alone, Merle!” he growls in warning but Merle only spares him an unconcerned glance.

“Tell me..” He runs his tongue carefully across his bottom lip. “Whatta ya say I take ya out back and show ya what it’s like to be fucked by a _real_ man.”

At this point Daryl feels like he’s about to have another stroke as he watches Merle wrap his arm around her shoulders in what seems like slow motion. Then suddenly everything fast forwards to real time and Merle is groping her breast. Diane’s eyes flash with anger and she sends a fist flying into Merle’s jaw.

Merle huffs out air as his head whips to the side and his eyes go wild and Daryl knows shit’s about to get real. And suddenly Daryl can’t make himself move fast enough.

“Fuckin’ _bitch!_ ” Merle growls and catches Diane’s wrist as she pushes roughly at him telling him to fuck off. He turns her wrist at a painful angle and Diane lets out a strangled yelp. He pushes her roughly against the wall, pinning her to the spot.

Daryl doesn’t even feel himself travel around the table, he just sees himself suddenly beside Merle as he yanks him away from Diane by his collar.

“I said fuckin’ leave her alone, fuckin’ sleazebag,” Daryl hisses into his face, patience long since run out.

Merle’s eyes grow ice cold as he grabs a vice like grip on Daryl’s arm. Daryl would have shivered from fear at the coldness of his brother’s face if he weren’t already so furious.

“How many fuckin’ times I gotta say it?”

“What? Ya think you some kinda special. Think ya better ‘n me?” he asks, going right back to their most common dispute.

Daryl wants to laugh in his face. “I know I’m fuckin’ better ‘n you.”

Daryl feels his neck whip forward as Merle pushes him hard against the booth bench, collapsing on his back on top of the cushioned surface.

Merle quickly yanks him back up and pulls him to his face before Daryl even has the chance to see straight.

“You think you better than me… huh? How ‘bout all them places we robbed together. Remember that car we stole. Yeah, that shit was fuuun. I know you liked it – ”

Daryl rips himself from Merle’s grasp and points a deft finger at his face. “Fuck. You. You know I was only there ‘cause you made me. Fuck you and your manipulative bull _shit_. I got enough of that shit from our old man. I ain’t the fuckin’ same person I was back then –”

“Yeah you’re a fuckin’ pussy now,” Merle interrupts loudly.

“Man! I’m fuckin’ done with you!”

His head snaps back as Merle’s fist rams against his eye. He stumbles back a couple of paces, but springs forward, practically tackling Merle to the floor. A whole new level of rage entering his body, leaving him trembling and seeing red.

Suddenly the bar is filled with loud noise, hoots and hollers. The sound of his name being chanted pricks his ears as he pummels Merle in the face, packing in all his anger and troubles behind each punch.

He feels the skin on his knuckles split, proceeding to piss him off even further.

Merle lets out a growl and manages to slip a strong punch through Daryl’s punches and knocks him off to the side of Merle.

And Merle’s on him in an instant, wrapping his clammy hands tight around his neck. Daryl’s eyes bulge slightly as his breathing is completely cut off.

Merle’s blood drips onto his face, mixing with his own, but it goes unnoticed as Daryl claws at the hands, visions of his father above him trying to choke the life out of him with one hand and ripping the belt out of his pants with his other one invading his mind. His heart pounds painfully in his chest and he feels the beginnings of a panic attack start to take hold.

Choking and wheezing for air, he looks up into Merle’s eyes with his own bulging ones, and feels a powerful surge of anger and fear flow over him all at once. His eyes are dilated, cold all the way down to his soul. Daryl’s surely convinced that Merle’s actually trying to kill him.

Daryl sucks desperately for air he’s not getting and gives up trying to pry Merle’s hands off when his vision begins to blacken. Managing to think through his foggy, fading mind he starts ramming his fists into the sides of Merle’s head, making Merle loosen his grip enough for Daryl to bring his head up and slam his forehead against Merle’s nose. A sickening crunch resonates through his skull as he breaks his brother’s nose again.

Merle jerks his head back and puts a hand to his nose and Daryl shoves him off quickly and gets on top, punching Merle as hard and as fast as he can with his quickly depleting energy. He doesn’t stop until he realizes he’s just sitting there punching his unconscious brother in the face, spit, snot, and blood flying in every direction, including on his own face. He stops and looks down at his brother, breathing hard, and wipes his bleeding knuckles across his jeans. Sneering at him, he spits at Merle’s face, blood spraying in the mix.

“That’s for fuckin’ pushin’ me in a glass shelf, asshole,” he rasps breathlessly, shakily pushing himself up into a standing position, joints screaming in agony of overuse.

He looks around him and feels himself flush with embarrassment and anxiety when he sees the rowdy ring of people surrounding him, watching, some cheering, all caught up in the moment. He looks around quickly, looking desperately for an escape, ready to leave this God forsaken bar, and feels people grab a hold of him saying shit to him that he doesn’t care about. He violently shakes them off and quickly shoves himself through the crowd, glancing back to the booth, trying to spot Diane, frowning when he finds it empty. Daryl sighs, turning back to continue his journey through the crowd and makes it to the edge of the building when he bumps right into Diane. He takes a quick step back, not expecting her sudden presence and she balances herself before putting hesitant hands on his shoulders and squeezing.

“Are you okay? Your face…” she asks loudly past the rambles of the excited crowd. Her wide eyes, filled with worry and concern, make him feel even shittier. She drops her hands, favoring to dig around in her purse.

Daryl looks down at her for a few long seconds and touches his face realizing he has blood splattered across it, some his own, some not. He looks back down giving her a minute shake of his head.

“Jus’ need some fresh air…” he breathes out.

She produces a rag from her purse and Daryl raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Here… let me get it for you.”

Daryl looks down at the rag being held up and shakes his head, he doesn’t want to bloody up her stuff. He reaches around to his back pocket and pulls out his own rag. “Naw, it’s okay. I got my own. I’ll get it.”

“Ya sure?” she asks and Daryl nods his head and looks towards the exit.

“Are you leaving?”

Daryl looks back to the booth they were sitting at, where Merle’s unconscious form is being swarmed by curious people and his lackeys trying to drag him off through the crowd. Then he looks up at the stage that was now empty apart from some of the group still putting away their instruments, glancing over their shoulders at the still excited crowd. He looks back at Diane, shrugging.

“Dunno,” he says before turning away and pushing his way through the crowd that is continuing to piss him off more and more.

Breaking away into the cool night when he steps outside the door, the cold chilling the blood on his face. It’s surprisingly quiet except for the odd sum of people who decided leaving would be a good idea. He doesn’t blame them really. The musicians put their instruments away and two of the most disliked people decided to have a brawl right in the middle of everyone, probably ruining their good evening.

He walks quite a ways down the sidewalk, seeking solitude, making anyone who sets out to look for him really have to search. He finds a nice quiet place and pulls out his pack of cigarettes, shaking one out and sticking it in his lips with shaky hands. He flicks his lighter open and lights it and shoves it back in his pocket.

He puffs quickly, letting as much nicotine as he can handle go through his system all in one short go. He tilts his head back and lets the effects calm his frazzled nerves, breathing in the crisp air, looking up at the black cloudy sky.

He takes another puff of his cigarette before he sits himself down on the edge of the sidewalk with a pained groan and basks in the chilled air, feeling it blow across his exposed skin and making his hair whip around in all directions. He sucks in a deep, quivery breath and puts a hand to his chest as he tries to calm his hammering heart. He doesn’t think the human body is supposed to experience so much anger all at once.

He takes the rag that he shoved back in his pocket out and wipes off the blood on his face and hands the best he can, trying to distract himself from his physical discomforts and while he wonders in the back of his mind what a heart attack feels like.

He sits there alone in the quiet for quite some time before he hears the scuffing of someone’s feet walking in his direction. He’s immediately put on guard, but just sits there facing the parking lot and smokes his cigarette, pointedly ignoring whoever it is walking towards him, knowing they’d probably just skirt around him anyway. But they don’t. He hears the footsteps stop a couple of meters away from him on the sidewalk and then the sound of someone settling down on the ground. Daryl makes a quick glance toward the offending person invading his space and tenses.

_Oh hell._

“Ya tryin’ to hide from everyone? Took me forever to find where you were at…” Tommy mumbles into the cold air.

Daryl just turns back and stares straight forward, hoping this asshole would eventually leave him alone if he goes ignored long enough, but he doesn’t get the hint.

“Sorry…”

Slightly caught off guard by the apology, Daryl slowly turns his head and looks toward him with furrowed eyebrows.

“…Merle shouldn’ta went after you like that. He shoulda left you alone. You and your lady friend.”

Daryl snorts at Tommy and turns his head back in front of him, shaking his head. _What the hell is he doing here?_

“What the hell you want?” Daryl asks him gruffly, cutting to the point. He doesn’t have the patience for this dipshit.

Tommy hesitates for a few seconds before blurting out his thoughts.

“I like you, Daryl… Always have really, since I first saw ya. You’re not like yer brother. Yer a better man than him, more attractive–”

Daryl cuts his eyes to him as Tommy rambles his way through his sentence, beginning to become very uncomfortable with the man’s confession. _What is he getting at?_

“I ain’t gay. An’ if that’s what ya wantin’… well, you’re just shit out a’ luck,” Daryl says sternly, scowling at him.

“I know that… I’ve always known that,” he adds quickly and then takes a deep breath. “But I was hopin’ maybe we could uh… be friends.”

Daryl leans back and stares at him with a hard scowl.

“ _Hell_ no! I fuckin’ hate you.”

He watches as Tommy’s face, which could easily be a model for a redneck rendition of a ken doll, dissolve into a disappointed and hurt filled frown and Daryl feels anger begin to fiercely surge through him, again.

“Don’t fuckin’ give me that look you fake piece a’ shit. You’ve treated me like a piece of shit ever since I fuckin’ known you just because it’s what Merle did – does. Doin’ anything he says, being his bitch. And now you want to be my _friend?_ What the hell man?” he asks incredulously. “No. Fuck you. If you wanted to be my friend this whole time, you shouldn’ta treated me like dog shit smeared across the bottom of ya shoe. Ya fuckin’ unbelievable…” Daryl finishes with a shake of his head and watches as Tommy stares at him and then looks down, nodding.

They both sit in an uncomfortable silence for about thirty seconds before Tommy stands up and begins walking down the side walk back where he came from.

“Does Merle know?” Daryl finds himself asking despite his serious dislike for the man.

Tommy stops and pivots his shoulders to look back at him with a frown and shakes his head.

“Better keep it that way. If Merle ever gets wind of it, then ya might _really_ be his bitch. If ya had even a lick of sense you’d kick him to the curve like I did. He ain’t ya friend neither.” Yeah, Merle is too much like their father in that respect…

Tommy’s face gets even sadder looking before he turns straight ahead and continues walking away. And for a second Daryl almost feels bad for him… _almost_.

Daryl sighs and flicks the butt of his cigarette out into the parking lot and looks up into the sky. He feels a sudden cold drop of water hit his nose and then another one hit his bare arm. And then he hears the sound of droplets splattering all around him against the vehicles and the cemented ground.

The wind picks up, chilling his skin making him shiver under its sudden coldness. He groans as he pushes himself up off the ground trying to stand up, all bones achy and joints stiff. He rubs his back with his hand as he heads back inside before the bottom falls out of the clouds. _I’m gettin’ to fuckin’ old for this shit._

He walks back inside the bar and almost immediately hears a voice shout close by.

“There he is!”

He doesn’t even have time to look over and see who it is before he feels an abrupt smack right into his jaw sending Daryl’s body twisting around as he flies toward the floor, braising himself with his forearm with a pained grunt. He lays there for a few seconds, pain resonating through his skull in the form of throbs as he sees nothing but white. He can’t help but moan from the pain.

He’s vaguely aware of the yelling and arguing next to him as he slowly regains his senses. He flicks his blurry eyes up to see the offender and finally and gets his wits about him, feeling anger surge through him past the intense pounding in his head.

“What the _HELL!!?_ ” he growls, getting up from the floor scowling. And it’s at this time he notices Jon pulling back on a tall, heavy set man’s arm trying to talk to him calmly with Diane standing a few feet away with concerned eyes, but the man is obviously not listening.

“You hit my wife, you inbred hillbilly!” he screams in Daryl’s bruised face.

Daryl feels his hackles rise at the insult and he grits his teeth. “ _What?_ ”

“Don’t play stupid. You know what I’m talkin’ about?” He inches closer to Daryl’s face, but Jon pulls him back again.

“Look Rich, you need to relax. I think this might just be a misunderstanding. Your wife says he hit her, mine says differently. Why don’t we deal with this like adults, someone is obviously not being honest here.”

Richie huffs and rips his arm from Jon and points his finger in Daryl’s face. “You better start explainin’, Dixon.”

“Explain _what_?” Daryl asks lowly.

“He’s talking about Jennifer,” Diane speaks up and realization suddenly dawns on him and he rubs his forehead, smearing some of the leftover blood across it.

“Ah, hell… I didn’t hit ‘er.”

“Jenny says you did,” Richie dead pans.

“He didn’t –” Diane starts, but Jon holds up a hand interrupting her and nods to Daryl.

“Why don’t _you_ tell us what happened.”

Daryl squints before he closes his eyes trying to remember past getting knocked in the head so many times since.

“She started talkin’ shit to me for no apparent reason, she slaps me across the face and then I just reacted. I pushed her away and she landed on her ass, but I never hit her.”

Both Jon and Diane look at Richie with a matching expression of ‘see?’

“They have the same story, Richie.” Jon says and Richie narrows his eyes.

“You callin’ my wife a liar?”

Jon frowns. “You callin’ mine one?”

They stare at one another before Richie shifts his narrowed gaze to Diane and then to Daryl. “You better not lay another hand on my wife or I’ll do _worse_ than punch to the face.”

“Whatever,” Daryl mutters past his hand as the man stalks away.

He turns his gaze to Jon and Diane and rolls his eyes, shaking his head. He immediately wishes he hadn’t though, when he’s overcome with a light headed feeling and stumbles a little as he reaches for the closest chair and sits down, slumping forward and resting his elbows on the table, holding his face with his hands.

He feels a hand on the back of his shoulder. He tenses and he peeks past his hands, pivoting his head to look over his shoulder, seeing Jon standing there. Daryl’s shoulders slump and he places his face back in his hands.

“Ya alright, Daryl?”

Daryl sighs. “This is why I hate crowded places,” he responds, avoiding Jon’s question. “This is why I hate people.”

Jon grimaces before he pats Daryl’s shoulder and pulls the chair beside him out and sits down, Diane doing the same beside him.

Daryl looks around him seeing that people are leaving and a lot of them giving him curious and cautious stares as they go by him to exit the building.

“I should probably leave before the cops get here…” He looks around the busy building, trying to spot his brother being carried away by his buddies, but doesn’t see them. They probably hauled out of here a long time ago. “But then again… they probably didn’t give a shit enough to actually call the cops. ‘Cause it’s just ‘The Dixons’ scrappin’ it out. Why should they care? It’s not like we were beatin’ up on somebody they actually give a rip about.”

Daryl sighs and looks over to Jon, who is looking down, seeming to be deep in thought.

“Enjoyed ya playin’ by the way. Sorry I kinda ruined it.”

Jon looks at him then waves a hand. “Naw, don’t worry about it Daryl. We were about to quit playin’ anyway. It’s not yer fault Merle came here and decided to pick a fight with you.”

Daryl frowns and looks down at the table with a miserable frown. The mention of his brother sends a sharp pain through his chest. About the time when he thinks he’s over his stupid fuckin’ brother, he’s blindsided by how much his brother’s impetuous and insensitive behavior actually hurts him. They’re supposed to love each other, but at this point he doesn’t see that ever happening. And then the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that what he might have called love was just a sham to have a place to rest his head and buy his stupid fucking drugs.

When he was a little kid, back before Merle left, he used to look up to him. He was like a hero of sorts. He was Big Brother Merle. That’s the way he wanted it to be that when he finally decided to show his ass again after their dad died. But now? Now he realizes that Merle was just using him, too narcissistic to think of anyone but himself. For a long time Daryl just didn’t want to see it, he refused to accept that Merle wouldn’t ever get better or be a better person. He can’t believe how blind he was.

“I’m so fuckin’ stupid,” he mutters to himself, rubbing a tired hand across his face.

“What?” both Jon and Diane say and Daryl looks up like he forgot they were sitting there with him.

Daryl shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter.” He looks around again, avoiding their questioning and worried gazes and notices the place is clearing out pretty fast apart from the usually customers at this hour. “I should probably get home; today’s been a pretty rough fuckin’ day.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. You’ll be able to drive right?” Jon asks and Daryl looks at him.

“Whadya mean?” he asks defensively before he can stop himself.

“Yer not dizzy or anything like that, you got hit in the head a few times tonight, right?”

“What? Ahh, no. I’ll be fine. I’m sure I’ll make it,” Daryl responds.

Jon arches a brow, “Ya sure?”

Daryl nods slightly, “Mhmm.”

“Okay… well, we’re gonna head out.” Jon and Diane stand up and Jon leans over and picks up a fiddle case he has sitting on the floor that Daryl failed to notice.

Daryl stands up with them. He has no other reason to stay here.

Daryl follows them out to the door and catches the sneer that Richie sends him as he walks by from the corner of his eye and sighs.

_Ya made another enemy, Dixon, and ya didn’t even have ta try._


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

He ends up driving fifteen miles under the speed limit as he drives home, the hammer pounding in his skull making him squint his eyes tight. He doesn’t even want to know what he looks like, but he can feel the sticky residue of dried blood across his face pulling on his skin when he contorts his face into a grimace when driving over a particularly rough patch on the road.

He concentrates hard on his surroundings through his throbbing head and the steady downpour of rain, hoping no deer decide to run out in front of him.

He sighs in relief when he pulls into his driveway and into the shed.

_Home fuckin’ sweet home._

He shuts off his truck, sighing, and slides out of his truck. He suppresses a moan as he walks hurriedly through the rain to the front door and unlocks it; he’s aching all the way down to his bones. He rings his hair out onto the floor and turns around to lock the door back. He stands there quietly for a few seconds, listening for any sign of movement. The house is completely silent, but it doesn’t help his nerves. He has to check and make sure he’s alone before he can even begin to relax.

He walks silently through the dark rooms, suppressing that childish urge to take off running and hide under his covers. He doesn’t stop until he’s completely satisfied he’s the only one in the house. He sighs and walks into his room to get ready for bed. He undresses down to his boxers and slips on a grey t-shirt.

He’s incredibly exhausted. His whole world feels like a foggy haze and the only thing he wants and needs is sleep. But he has a hell of a time getting to sleep and when he does sleep it’s always shitty. His dreams are getting more graphic, more realistic, disturbing him each night.

Daryl shudders as he thinks about them.

He stiffly walks to the bathroom and examines his face. He’s relieved to see it doesn’t look as fucked up as it did a couple of weeks ago, but he left eye is swollen again and he has reddish purple marks along the sides of his face. And like he reasoned earlier, he still has splatters of blood dried to his face.

He reaches out with his hand and, with much difficulty, turns the faucet on. He places his cupped hands under the stream of water and splashes it into his face. The water drips off his chin and rolls down his neck onto his chest as he looks intently down at his hands still cupped before him. He takes note of the bad trembling of his hands and grimaces. He turns them over and examines his knuckles where they’re already starting to swell. He makes a face at the skinned up meaty sections of his knuckles where the skin looks absent, leaving it looking raw and bloody. He curses Merle for getting him so riled up that he fucked up his knuckles trying to bash his face in.

He bites at his lips, desperately trying to hold back a groan as he awkwardly tries to clean the wounds and then wrap both hands in medical tape to maybe keep himself from jostling his knuckles too much. He leans closer to the mirror and looks at his teeth, pushing at a few that hurt like fuck and finds that Merle knocked a few lose. He curses again and makes a note to himself to be careful chewing certain foods.

He picks up his toothbrush and brushes his teeth the best he can with sore hands, flinching slightly when he brushes over where he was punched.

He rinses his mouth out and stands back, just looking at himself in the mirror and thinking to himself how people will never understands how much he _hates_ the way he looks. Will may have always claimed he wasn’t his daddy, but Daryl knew, even then, that he was wrong. Some people may not have noticed it right off, but he can see the resemblance plain as day. He has his mother’s eye color, sure, but he can see _him_ residing in the angular shapes of his face. It might be in the way he squints his eyes a certain way or scowls angrily.   He can’t stand looking at himself. It’s like looking into a time portal and seeing his daddy’s face all over again. He sees the similarities and he hates himself for it. He knows deep down that he could never be like him, even if he tried, but he still has a lingering fear that he’s just like the man he is, destined to follow in his father’s footsteps.

Daryl groans loudly, letting all his upsets bleed into his voice.

He walks stiffly out of the bathroom, turning out the light, and immediately heads towards his bed, dragging his feet as he goes.

He moans as he lays himself down and pulls the sheets over his miserable body, snuggling up flat against the mattress, hoping for just this once he can actually have a decent night’s sleep.

…

A strong feeling of apprehension fills him as his legs unsteadily carry him through the dark, unknown location. An eerie vibe fills the air as everything stretches and distorts around, everything painted with a dark red hue. It’s abnormally quiet except for the sound of booted feet walking at the opposite end of the hallway from him accompanied with a sudden metallic _clank_ that echoes all around him.

A shiver of fear travels down his spine and within seconds, he’s bolting in the opposite direction. He’s barely pushing himself faster than a walk as the figure gains deadly speed behind him. He runs through the blackened hallway, desperate for any escape and spots a door not far ahead to his right. He makes it to a doorway, _just_ managing to pass the threshold with only the harsh scratch of nails marring his flesh, before slamming the door on them.

He leans against the door, feet scuffing the floor, eyes bulging in horror as the door knob turns and the door begins pounding against Daryl’s back and strongly flinging his weight from the door.

Daryl slams into the floor face first and the sound of the door crashing open feels the room. He’s frozen in his spot as he hears something being set down and leaned against the wall, too afraid to look.

Rough hands grab his shoulders and roll him over, giving him the perfect view of a silhouette and the glint of teeth as a nasty smile spreads across their face. A rough hand clamps against his mouth, preventing him from screaming. The figure leans closer and the sound of a familiar slurred voice echoes in the room.

“ _Ya gonna be good this time, boy?”_

Daryl rips his eyes open wide with a startled gasp, unable to suck in air.   Panic shoots through him when he feels a large hand pressed hard against his nose and mouth smashing his head deep into his pillow. His eyes adjust to the darkness and he sees a large shape looming over him. He bucks his chest out in panicked frenzy and slings his hands out in front of him batting away the shape that’s restraining him.

A vice like grip captures his left arm and forces his arm hard against his own chest, the pressure on his face increasing to an incredibly painful degree.

Daryl lets out a muffled scream bucking aimlessly against the weight, bringing up his free fist and swinging it towards what he estimates to be their face, screaming loudly as pain shoots up his entire arm.

The figure grunts and their grip slackens, clearly not expecting the sudden blow. Daryl jerks his arms around and whacks them off, unable to do anything more with his hand, which is now trembling under a painful prickling numbness.

He quickly scrambles for his .45 under his pillow for his with a trembling hand. His blood runs cold when he realizes his fingers are too stiff to even wrap his fingers around the grip and pull the trigger. He panics and in an act of desperation he whips his gun around and smacks the person across the face with the barrel, gritting his teeth at the jarred movements that travel through his hand.

He hears an animalistic growl and the rushing of air before a sickening smack slams against the side of his face. The blow forces him to falls to the side and he lands on the floor in a trembling haze. Hands rip him up from the floor and with an almighty roar he’s suddenly traveling through the air.

In a calm illogical part of his brain he feels like he’s suspended in mid air until his head rams forcefully against the wall, his spine popping all the way to mid back.

A flurry of thought and emotions flow through him all at once as he lays there in the floor, his heart heavily hammers in his chest as the large shape walks towards him.

“You’re makin’ this harder on _yourself_.”

He looks up at the shape, body tingling with pain, heart hammering in his chest.

A sudden anger consumes him as he thinks of how easily this bastard is going to just take him. Take him right out of his own damn house while he’s sleepin’.

_Damn them._

He bursts upwards off the floor and takes off running towards the large figure before ducking and turning sharply to get around them, escaping their grabbing arms. He runs past them and charges through his bedroom doorway, barely concealing the scream bubbling up from his throat. He doesn’t even think, he just runs, the heavy pounding of footsteps behind him spurring him on even faster.

He notices the front door is open and darts toward it, yanking his keys from the bowl beside the door as he runs through it.

He scrambles onto the porch with frantic feet, thrusting himself into the air as he clears the steps. He’s almost convinced that he has a head start and he’s getting away until a heavy weight slams into his back and he plummets to the ground, all the wind knocked from him leaving a hollow ache deep in his gut.

He squirms around kicking his legs at the weight on top of him. He finally gets his first glimpse of his attacker which really only tells him shit because of the black ski mask on their face. He bucks around, kicking and punching anywhere he can reach, doing anything to get free, fucked up hands be damned. He gets a small window of opportunity when they falter as one of his punches lands directly into their throat.

Daryl doesn’t stop to think, he just shoves them off with a heavy grunt and stumbles to his feet, running as fast as his wobbly legs will allow towards his truck.

He slams into the door unable to stop himself in time, knocking the sense out of him for a second. He sucks in a breath and pushes off the side of the truck and shoots a glance over his shoulder to see them hauling ass straight for him. He whips forward hurriedly and biting his lip as he almost lets out a scream as his trembling hands wouldn’t work fast enough and grip the handle to open the door.

He throws himself into his truck, nearly slamming his ankle in the door as he yanks it closed. He rams his key in the ignition, praying to God that they hadn’t decided to fuck with his truck to keep it from working.

He gives a cry of joy when his truck purrs to life and he throws the stick in reverse pealing out of his shed just when his attacker reaches the side of his truck, slamming the window with their hand as he shoots backwards from them.

He throws on his breaks swinging the nose of the truck towards the road and throws it into drive and hauls ass. He peels onto the road and pushes his truck towards eighty, the fastest speed he can possibly go on these back roads without killing himself.

His fingers itch to turn the loud rock music blaring in his ear off, but he doesn’t dare, knowing he could swerve and spin out, crashing into the ditch. He hears his truck wine its protests at the speed pushing and Daryl quietly begs it to hold out for him.

He looks intently at the road, biting his lip, clamping onto the steering wheel with an iron grip despite the agonizing pain shooting through his hands.

His heart skips a beat when the dashboard is bathed with a sudden faint light and his eyes dart to the rear view mirror, seeing headlights speeding towards him in the distance.

Daryl gasps and presses harder on the gas, ignoring the trucks complaints, all while shouting a panicked mantra of _“Shit! Shit! Shit!”_ as their vehicle gets increasingly closer.

He finally sees Jon’s house in the distance and he lets out a strangled laugh.

He rips into their driveway only to slam on his breaks because of Jon’s work truck, hidden behind a tree, parked in the driveway. Daryl swerves off to the side barely missing the back bumper. Daryl throws himself from the truck without bother to shut it off and scrambles around Jon’s work truck, holding onto it to support his trembling form. A large van skids to a stop a few feet from his truck and he can’t stop himself breaking out into a frantic run, cursing Jon for having his house so far back in the woods.

He steps with shaky legs, and pumps as hard as he can gaining as much speed as his screaming muscles will allow. The sounds of his attacker quickly approaching from behind makes his heart pound harder in his head, his breath becomes harder to catch as he sprints harder, the sound of barking dogs barely makes it to his ears as he gasps for air.

He just rounds the corner when hands drag him down and he’s crashing face first into the dirt and he feels weight holding him down.

 _“No!”_ he screams and flops around to face them. He looks into the cold eyes of his attacker and without thinking reaches for them, jabbing the shit out of them with his fingers.

They let out a scream that raises the hair on the back of his neck and he turns back over to scramble away only to cry out with despair as they grab a hold of a leg, sticking him with something.

He swings his foot around, colliding it into their face and they let go. He rips himself from the ground and takes off running to their door, trembling violently under the adrenaline coursing through his body.

He rams into the storm door, unable to slow himself, before ripping it open and franticly turning the knob of the wooden door letting out an animalistic scream of horror and frustration when he finds it locked.

 _“JON! PLEASE! OPEN THE DOOR! PLEASE!!!!”_ he screams in a scratchy voice as he bangs hard on the wooden door. _“PLEASE HELP!!”_ The door rattles violently on its hinges as he bangs as hard as his fatigued muscles allow.

He feels his panic soar as he finds increasingly harder to breathe. It becomes increasingly harder to hold himself up. The big burly bark from inside the house and the barks from outside start blending together into one big chaotic atrocity that makes his head ache.

 _“PLEASE!!”_ He gives another scream as he feels his banging fists begin to lose their vigor and he leans against the door, slowly sliding to the porch floor.

….

Jon’s startled awake by all the dogs barking. The faint recollection of screaming in his sleep immediately puts him on guard.

“What the hell?” Diane asks from beside him in a sleepy haze.

Jon ignores her, instead concentrating on their dogs. He already has a feeling something isn’t right. Esther’s doing her booger bark. She’s running up and down the house growling and barking, with her hackles raised, setting Jon more on edge.

Then he sees Esther charge towards the front door viciously as banging and screaming starts.

He jumps out of bed, grabbing his .45 and heads toward the door. He begins to recognize the voice screaming on the other side, and he feels a wave of dread shoot through him. _What the hell’s going on?!_

“Is that Daryl?” he hears Diane ask in an urgent voice behind him.

Jon rushes to the door, heart pounding. He quickly unlocks it and opens the door, only to have a panicked Daryl collide into him to get inside and fall to his knees. Jon only stares in shock at him for a second until the sound of screeching tires pulls his eyes to the road just in time to see a large white van peel off out of sight.

He’s vaguely aware of the sound of someone hitting the floor as he stares at the road.

“Daryl?” he hears Diane question to which he hears no audible reply. “ _Daryl!?_ ”

Her panicked voice puts him even more on edge and he pulls his gaze from the empty road towards Diane leaning over Daryl on the floor with his arms spread out in awkward positions.

He sees Diane put a hand to her mouth and he feels his stomach drop with dread.

“Oh my _god_. Jon…. He’s not breathing!” her shaky voice strangles out.

Jon feels his blood run cold and he rushes to Daryl’s form and rolls him over on his back.   Daryl’s unblinking eyes stare straight out to nothing and Jon feels like he’s going to be sick.

He reaches out a shaky hand to Daryl’s neck and almost laughs with relief when he feels the thumping of a heartbeat under his fingers. He looks at Diane, his face making hers light up with a slight guarded hope.

“He’s alive,” he breathes out. “He’s alive.”

It’s almost like the words make something click in her head and she’s suddenly pushing him out of the way.

“Call 911,” she says before she grabs Daryl’s head, tilting it back and clamping his nose closed while she breathes into his mouth, breathing for him– keeping him alive.

Jon watches for a few seconds before he runs to get his phone and calls 911.


End file.
